


Happy to Bleed

by Phyona



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Biting, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Come Marking, Demon Dean Winchester, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Grace, M/M, Mark of Cain, Season/Series 10, Sick Castiel, Sickfic, Soul Bond, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Telepathy, Violence, because apparently that's all I ever write even when I don't mean to, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2475488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phyona/pseuds/Phyona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's been on the road as a demon for months when Castiel, weak with his failing grace, finally finds him.  Dean will use any means necessary to convince Castiel the man he knew is gone, and Castiel will do anything to bring him back, even if it means bleeding himself dry.</p><p>(Set early s10.  Expect canon divergence)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I certainly just used some tags I've never dabbled in before. "Blood play"..."dubcon" ...fucking "come marking." Looks like someone knows how to party, and that someone is me. 
> 
> Can't imagine this will be more than two or three chapters but my more seasoned readers know what a lying shitbag I am when it comes to these things, so who knows. 
> 
> Oh, and I promise this fic will have a happy ending, for those of you who like those sorts of things. 
> 
> I love you so much I'd give up an entire army of angels to keep you safe.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you, Cas?" Dean says, grabbing his whiskey shot off the bar top and downing it. Castiel stares at the back of his head, his hands clenched at his sides. "Third time your feathery ass has tracked me down in two months. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're a masochist." Dean shoots him a quick glance over his shoulder, black flashing in his eyes.

Cas swallows, swaying a little. The air around him feels thick, stinking of sour beer and smoke. It took all of his reserves to find Dean in this sleazy New Hampshire dive, and now that he's here, he's dead on his feet. The inside of his head is spiraling with exhaustion, and his chest feels hot and swollen, but he can't back down now. After all, he's wasted enough time held up in bed. Sam keeps telling him to rest, but rest can't cure what's killing him.

"Dean," he breathes, and the muscles tense in his best friend's back.

"What." The word is cold, dead.

"Please."

Finally, Dean swivels around in his stool and fixes Castiel with an appraising stare. The last two times he found Dean the demon fled from him easily, a knock-out punch the only greeting he offered. The mere fact that he's engaged Dean's attention, however briefly, feels like a miracle.

"Please? Please what."

"Come with me. We can fix this."

"Ahh, you see, that's where your mistake is," Dean says, rising to his feet and taking a step into Castiel's space. "Nothing about me is broken. In fact, I've never felt so fucking good." His words trigger a memory from years before, taunting him…

 _Damnit, Cas, we can fix this_.

 _Dean, it's not broken_.

Canting his head to the side, Dean's eyes glint, as though he can hear Castiel's thoughts.

"But you…you're really the broken one, aren't you, Cas. What's wrong? Can't hack it without me?"

Castiel doesn't have an answer to that.

"You need to come home," he states instead.

"Home. Fucking  _home_? And where's that? With  _you_?" Dean spits on a cruel laugh. "All I've got are motels and dives and a shitty old car.  _This_  is my home," he says, swirling his forefinger to indicate the filth around them. "And I don't see a place in it for broke-dick angels who can barely stand."

"Sam is your home." Castiel knows that it's foolish to mention Sam to the creature in front of him, who doesn't even find value in his beloved Impala anymore, but he's desperate. A chill shoots down his spine when he sees the corner of Dean's eye twitch, a ripple of power, dangerous and evil, emanating from his very being.

" _Sam_  stopped looking for me months ago," the thing that looks like Dean growls. "He knows the old Dean is gone, believe me, I made sure of that. You're the only one stupid enough to keep following me."

"I only--"

"What's it gonna' take to make you stop, huh? You gonna' make me hurt you? Kill you?" The demon chuckles. "Nah, even then I think you'd find a way to keep stalking me."

"Please, Dean," Cas says again. Begging is the one tactic he knows to try bringing his friend back. He has no other options, not anymore. "I only wish to talk to you."

Dean sighs, his eyes narrowing. Cas feels his breath on his face, the scent laced with whiskey, cinnamon, apples,  _Dean_ …but there's also something else. Something smoky and metallic and wrong. He'd give anything to make that go away.

Without warning, Dean's hand snaps forward and clenches in the lapel of his trench, startling a gasp out of him. Leaning in, Dean whispers hotly into his ear.

"You wanna talk, Cas? Fine." Dean jerks him to the side and starts dragging him toward the back of the bar. "We'll find somewhere real nice and quiet to have a little chat."

Cas can't do anything but allow himself to be pulled along, stumbling.  The world whirls, his head clotted with fog from his wilting grace.  

They burst through the back door and Dean yanks him to a small alley between the bar and a storage shed. With two fists curled into Cas's coat, Dean slams him up against the wall as soon as they're hidden. Cas's head cracks into the brick, making stars pop behind his eyelids. As he swallows down a wave of nausea, he tries to focus on Dean's face, so very close to his own.

"Dean," he grits, gently gripping Dean's upper arms to steady himself. "Please." There's that word again. Castiel wonders if he  _is_  actually broken.  Or perhaps just pathetic.

"What is it, huh? You need me to show you how far gone I am before you believe it? Wanna see how much I love going dark side." Before Castiel can prepare for it, Dean slaps him hard across the face, snapping his head to the side. Castiel's vision flickers.

With a finger on his chin, Dean turns Cas's face forward again, forcing him to stare into the black of his eyes. "You like that? Does this seem like something your Dean would do to you?" He slaps him again, pulls his head back. "I haven't killed anyone in days, you know. And I feel it, like an itch inside my skin." Dean shudders against him, a surge of power and bloodlust flowing from him. "You should've seen the last poor bastard's face when I slit his throat, how he gargled and begged…God, it was hilarious."

Castiel feels sick.  Watching those ruthless, cruel words come from Dean's mouth chafes against everything the angel thinks he knows about the world.

"Dean. How—how can you kill innocent people?  _You?_ "

"Easy…because I fucking want to. I can do whatever I want now. I don't have to answer to you or Sam or  _anybody_." Another slap hits him with too much force behind it to be human, and Castiel's knees finally buckle. He slumps against the wall but Dean's grip is iron, keeping him vertical. A trickle of warmth that can only be blood seeps from Castiel's ear.

"We don't want you to answer to us. We just want you back." Cas swallows hard, blinking rapidly in an attempt to focus.

"We? There's no one here but you, genius."

It's true; Cas is the only one still clinging to the belief that Dean can be turned back into his former self.  Though it broke his heart when Sam receded into himself, refusing to join Cas on his quest to save Dean, he's glad for it now.  Nothing can hurt Sam more than seeing his brother like this.  Of course, nothing can hurt Castiel more either.

"Then  _I_  want you back," he confesses stupidly.

"Why?" Dean snorts.

For a long moment Cas doesn't respond, befuddled and dizzy with pain.

"Answer me!" Dean barks, slamming him into the bricks again and knocking the wind out of him.  Another memory strikes Castiel, of long ago when their positions were reversed.

_Cas, please._

_I gave everything for you, and this is what you give to me?_

"I miss you," he pants before he realizes what he's saying, nostalgia making him loose-tongued. "I'm not…I will not stop until you come back to us."

Dean raises his hand to slap him again, and Cas squeezes his lids shut to prepare for the blow, but when it doesn't come, he risks a glance. Dean's irises have reverted to their usual green, but everything about his expression reflects the grotesque demon within. There's a malevolent light behind his eyes, as if he's found the chink in Castiel's armor and knows exactly where to strike. Of everything Dean's done since the mark took him, this look scares Cas the most.

"Ahhh, I see now," Dean says in a slippery voice. "Of course, it's obvious."

"Obvious?"

"You  _want_  me."

Castiel's breath catches.

"I—"

"You do," Dean states, triumphant, something in Cas's expression confirming his suspicion.  "Fuck, that has to be the funniest thing I've ever—"

"No," is all Castiel can say, but even he must admit how weak it sounds. Dean only laughs, and Cas is suddenly overwhelmed with an emotion he's never experienced before; humiliation so profound that it sears in his lungs and rips his guts apart.

"Ohh  _yes_. Can't lie to a demon, Cas, you know that. You want me so bad you can taste it. Tell me, how long?"

"What?" Castiel blinks. His vision is fuzzy at the edges.  His head throbs.

"How long have you wanted to fuck me? Since you first put your dick in that reaper and realized pussy wasn't for you, or was it earlier than that?" His eyes sparkle with mirth, scanning over Castiel's face and observing his tells with ease.  Cas thinks that he would give anything to have the cold mask his grace once afforded him.  Then he would have somewhere to hide.  "It  _was_. How early? Was it Purgatory? Did you like sleeping next to me in the dirt? Did you fantasize about mounting me like the wild animals we'd turned into?"

"I would never—"

"Ahh, so earlier then. Was it when you abandoned me so I could play house with Lisa? That must have stung. Did you hide in the corner and watch me fuck her, wishin' it was you?"

"Dean, stop." Castiel's face is burning and the back of his throat aches as he tries to swallow.

"How about when you followed me into death to face down your own brothers? Awful big thing to do for just a friend, huh, Cas? Or was it right from the fucking start, when you first laid your greedy hands on me in the pit, branding your claim into my fucking  _skin_? You sick bastard…"

"Please—"

"Tsk, tsk sweetheart. Old Dean would have turned a blind eye like Daddy Dearest's good little boy. But the leash is off now. Is this what it will take for you to leave me alone? Do you need to fuck me before it sinks into your thick skull that the righteous man is gone? Because he…he would never let you touch him."

Cas's windpipe feels like it's closing, his breath coming in short pulls.

"I don't want that."

Dean leans in even closer.

"Bullshit."

Dean presses his lips to Castiel's, and it's so sweet, so soft, that for a moment Castiel's mind whites out and he forgets that the man kissing him isn't actually Dean.  Whimpering softly, he kisses back before he can help himself, his fingers kneading at Dean's arms.

As soon as he gives in, Dean pulls back, and the grin curling his lips drains the color from Cas's face.

"That's what I thought."

"Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean grinds his thigh against Castiel's groin, raising his eyebrows and watching as Castiel's jaw falls slack and his eyelashes flutter. "You gonna' try and deny it some more? Waste my fucking time?"

"No."

"Then take it, Cas. Take what you want and be done with me."

Shaking his head, Castiel pushes at Dean's chest, unable to bear the warmth of his body, but it's a waste of energy. Even if he was at full power, Dean is an immovable force.

"You don't want this," Cas says.

"Is that so?"

Dean rolls his pelvis again, letting Cas feel the hard bulge of his growing erection. He leans in, presses his temple against Castiel's cheekbone. His breath cools the blood trickling from Cas's ear.

"I want  _everything_ ," he growls. Castiel can sense gluttony oozing from his mangled soul in waves. It blindsides him, and he shivers, clamping his lip between his teeth. Even though he can't see it with his grace as weak as it is, he knows that the soul of  _his_  Dean felt nothing like this. The creature before him is wrong in every way that Dean had been right. "Besides, I haven't fucked anyone in a few hours. Might as well use you."

At the mention of Dean's other conquests, Cas feels his typical sick churn of jealousy.  It grounds him, let's him find his words.

"Even if I did… _want_  you, I don't want you like this. You're not yourself, and you'll hate me for it when I bring you back."

"Bring  _who_  back, Cas? The Dean you know has been gone for a long, long time. Snatched away right from under your pretty nose and you didn't see it.  Besides, after everything you've done, don't you think he hates you already?"

Shock leaves Castiel unprepared for Dean claiming his mouth in a bruising, penetrating kiss. He's crushed back against the wall, Dean's hips locking against his and making warmth roil in his gut. Hands scrambling for purchase on Dean's arms, Cas tries to pull away before it's too late.

"Stop," Cas groans when Dean finally allows him to turn his head. His mouth is filled with Dean's taste, so wonderful and terrible that he wants to gag.

"I would if I thought you wanted me to."

"I'm not sure if I believe that."

"Good."

"Good?"

"You shouldn't believe anything a demon says," Dean says with a flash of straight, white teeth.  "Hell, you shouldn't believe what anyone says."

Fingers digging into Castiel's chest, Dean attacks his bared neck like he's starving.  An animalistic, drawn-out groan rumbles from him as he sucks and licks at the skin until it's raw. The sensation makes tingles cascade through the dying angel's weak body, drugging him. He swells in his pants against his will, gnaws his own lip so hard he bleeds.

If he had his grace, Cas could have forced himself to resist Dean's assault, but he's so battered, frail with longing and sickness. For years all he's wanted has been Dean's affection, Dean's touch, more than he's wanted anything in all the millennia of his existence.  And now Dean is right there, offering himself.

Castiel is giving in, and he hates himself for it.

Dean bites his skin hard enough to pierce, and Cas is overwhelmed with the sudden muddled blend of pain and pleasure.  Angels were not built to withstand so many sensations at a time, he's certain of it.  It feels like his vessel is too full, like he's cracking at the seams, ready to burst.

"Your…your blood," he feels Dean whisper against his throat. Castiel forces himself to understand Dean's words.  "It…it tastes…"

"What?"

"Nothing."

Castiel freezes.

Everything Dean's said during their encounter has been purposeful and brutal in its precision to hurt him. This is the first time Dean's faltered, and, though he could be imagining it, Cas swears there was something different in his voice. Something familiar.

"What is it about my blood, Dean?" he asks, sly, as memories of Sam injecting Dean with human blood a few months ago flood his thoughts.  To say Sam was devastated when the ritual didn't work would be an understatement. Neither angels nor Men of Letters know of any other method to cure a demon, and the things Dean said and did when he finally broke free, well...he can't say he blames Sam for giving up.  Still, he wonders if angel blood would have a stronger effect, since it's charged with grace and decidedly more pure. It's not much, but it's more than he's had to go on since he lost Dean to the Mark. 

In a violent rush of movement Dean grabs Cas's jaw in a bruising hold, banging his skull against the wall again. He jerks up to meet Cas's eyes with his black, depthless orbs.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, words jagged with a threat. He sounds like a monster.  Castiel scrambles for a response.

"I…was just saying, if you want more of my blood…I bit my lip. You could…"

For a long moment Cas is frozen under the cold stare of the demon and fear claws at him that he's been found out, but then something gives, and the black recedes. A nasty smirk tugs at Dean's lips.

"You trying to get me to kiss you, angel?"

"Y-yes."

"God, you really are pitiful."

When Dean kisses him this time he's meticulous, letting Castiel feel the softness of his plush lips and the slick sweep of his tongue. Dean kisses like he was born for it, all confidence and technique.  Castiel knows he must seem clumsy by comparison, but that doesn't stop him from giving back as much as he can.  He mimics Dean's movements, follows his lead and moves where Dean wants him.  As always, Dean is his reference point for all things human.

When he starts to feel accustomed to Dean's preferences, he grows a little brave.  Weaving his fingers into the soft hair at the back of Dean's head, Castiel caresses him just as he's always wanted to. He knows it's disgusting of him, but he can't help it. He needs to take anything he can from this for himself, even if it's something as minor as the feel of Dean's hair.

He trembles when Dean's arms wind around his back and hold him so close it's difficult to breathe. Rolling his hips, Dean drags his dick against Castiel's, sending a jolt of pleasure up his spine, and reminding him that his brief experience with sex felt nothing like this.  It had been made of simple gratification, restricted to the physical.  Dean, by contrast, has rendered his whole being one oversensitive nerve ending, made specifically for his personal enjoyment.  It's too intense to be pleasant.

"Yeah, come on," Dean breathes against his lips.  "Give it to me.  Come on, Cas."

For a brief moment, Castiel can almost imagine Dean is himself, kissing him passionately after a hunt. He'd fantasized about it so many times, how adrenaline would make them bold, how he'd use his lips to write his devotion on every inch of Dean's body, making him feel wanted and loved in all the ways he's deserved and never received.

But then Castiel remembers the taste in his mouth; Dean but _not_ Dean, the sweet overpowered by the smoky bite of evil, and the delusion evaporates. As the demon said, Dean would never let Castiel touch him, he knows that now. It's a fact that lances through him, chars his insides to ash worse than his dying grace.  He'd always told himself it was circumstance that kept them apart, nothing more than insurmountable outside forces.  Now he knows the truth: Dean simply doesn't want him that way.  The thing he craves most in the world can never be his.  

With a sharp nip to Castiel's bottom lip, Dean opens the cut there and draws Castiel from his dark thoughts. He steals the droplets of Castiel's blood with a lick and moans in satiation.

"Your…your grace. I can taste it," Dean whispers, pressing their foreheads together.

"It's yours.  Take it." It's a fool's hope, but if consuming his blood really can purify some of the demon in Dean, he'll gladly drain himself dry. After all, he won't need his own blood for much longer, and he's having difficulty thinking of anything worth living for.  What is there without Heaven, his siblings, Sam, or, worst of all, Dean, by his side?  Nothing.  Castiel has nothing at all.

"Ha, maybe you  _do_  want to die."

"Maybe I do."

Dean twitches at Castiel's words, his brow furrowing. He shakes his head a little.

"Don't say…you're lying."

"I'm not."

Castiel stares sadly into Dean's eyes as he scratches his fingers through his hair. Dean only looks more confused, and he searches Castiel's face like he's looking for a trick.

"Don't do that," Dean snarls, hand shooting up to grab Castiel's wrist and wrench it down. Castiel yelps, his bones creaking under the impossibly strong grip, shooting pain all the way up his arm.

"Do what? Touch you?" Cas asks through clenched teeth. "This isn't going to be a very satisfying encounter for you if I'm forbidden from touching you."  Something in his wrist pops. 

"You know what you were doing," Dean replies dangerously, but he relinquishes his hold, and Cas exhales in relief. "I ain't your lover and this isn't some fucking tryst."

"Believe me, I am aware."

Castiel takes a moment to look over Dean's face, distracting himself from the intense pain in his wrist.  He observes the freckles, laugh lines, and stubble that he's come to adore. It might as well be a vessel for all that the creature inside resembles its owner.  Still, there's a sweetness in the contours of Dean's face that no demonic mark can snuff out.  

"I want to bite you," Dean says, ignoring Castiel's scrutiny.

"You can do whatever you want."

"That's the idea."

Dean's mouth returns to Castiel's neck, latching on the spot where he'd broken skin earlier. Sucking viciously, Dean claws his hands down Castiel's sides and takes hold of his hip bones. Cas is already dizzy from his borrowed grace, the blinding pain in his wrist, and his head colliding with the wall repeatedly, so when Dean drinks from him, the world starts to spin.

Though Dean is still bearing most of his weight, Cas holds on as best he can, knowing he'll collapse if he doesn't. His head lolls to the side as he fights to stay conscious. He's never felt so tired, which is saying something considering the state of him recently.

With another bite to his already abused skin, Dean increases the blood flow, or at least Cas thinks he does. The fog in his brain is thickening by the second.

He's drawn back to himself a little when Dean reaches between them and cups him through his trousers. Castiel jerks, a part of him instinctively shocked that Dean is touching him in such an intimate way. While he knows the truth, he's finding it increasingly difficult to remember the reality of his position with his mind as unreliable as it is. Every part of him wants it to be his Dean so badly, that he's almost convincing himself it is.  Though he's loathe to admit it, he has to give the demon credit.  Taking away his ability to trust himself is the perfect strategy to strip away his armor, and make him hurt.

When his neck starts to numb where Dean is sucking him he can't find the will to care. Dean could be gnawing up a vital artery for all he knows.  It doesn't matter anymore.

"You taste so good," Dean groans, pulling back to look Cas in the eye as he continues to rub him through his pants. Eyes glancing to Dean's mouth, Castiel realizes distantly that it's  _his_  blood painting Dean's lips red, like Cas's body is a wild berry that Dean's ravaged between his teeth. For some reason the thought makes him happy. If anyone's blood is drained for Dean, it should be his.

"Cas?" he hears Dean say. His name sounds so familiar on Dean's lips, like a gift just for him.

"Yes," Cas breathes.

"You don't look so good—"

"I'm dying, Dean. How do you expect me to look?"

His words seem to hit Dean like a slap, his palm green eyes dilating with something like irritation, as his mouth curls into a bloodied grimace.  His hand freezes where it's pressed to Cas's erection.

"You're—"

"Dying. My grace is dying, and it's taking me with it. Don't you remember?"

A pause.

"I thought…why don't you find some rogue angel's grace to steal again? Keep you in the game…"

"No. I will not be taking another angel's grace ever again," Castiel states, forcing as much strength as he can muster into the words. Though his resolve may have crumbled when it comes to Dean, his determination never to hurt another being again is unshakable.

"I think that's fucking stupid."

"Perhaps."

"So…what, you're just gonna' let yourself wither and die?"

"Yes."

"And you don't care?"

"It's not as though I have much to live for anymore."

Dean clenches his jaw.

"Oh."

"Does that…upset you?" Cas asks, curiosity and hope giving him a charge of energy. 

"No," he snaps, a little too quickly. "It's just that…I'm gracious enough to pity fuck you, so the least you could do is not look like complete shit."

Cas blinks, frowns.

"I'm…sorry."

"You should be," Dean says, but his meaning is muddled. Again, he looks conflicted. It doesn't seem to matter much, however, because in a moment he reaches for the button on Castiel's pants and undoes it, dragging the zipper down like Cas didn't just confess his oncoming demise.

Something like a sob sneaks from Castiel's mouth when Dean reaches into his boxers and takes hold of his penis.  His grip is warm, firm, overwhelming.

"Looks like an angel blade isn't the only big thing you're packin'," Dean teases, shooting him a wink. The way he says it is so purely  _Dean_  that Cas laughs unexpectedly, a rush of fondness bubbling up inside him. God, he missed that.

Dean blinks like he isn't sure what he did.

His puzzlement only lasts a moment before he starts pumping him in earnest, forcing Castiel's mouth to fall open on a gasp. Dean takes advantage, sealing his lips over Castiel's in a wet kiss. Castiel is powerless to do anything but return it, captured by the flicker of Dean's humor.

Reaching up, he takes Dean's cheeks in his palms, encouraging him and ignoring the pain from his wrist. Dean's hand moving on his shaft is a revelation in technique, as though the demon already knows all the ways Castiel wants to be touched. He's rough and precise, varying his movements just enough to keep Castiel guessing. Pleasure churns in his stomach, building faster than he thinks is acceptable, but he can't stop kissing Dean to warn him to slow down.

Short, high-pitched whines are passed between their mouths, as Dean grinds his own dick against the meat of Castiel's thigh. Sparks dance through the black of Castiel's closed eyelids, and a rushing sound echoes in his ears. He barrels towards release, kissing Dean with everything he has left in his body.

"Dean," he breathes, and the demon pulls back just enough to see his face.

Dean's eyes are consumed by black, their depths cold and incomprehensibly evil, and something inside Castiel breaks. He comes so hard it hurts, scorching his insides and draining him raw. He yells, or at least he thinks he does. The edges of his vision stain black, the muscles in his legs turn to jelly, and the nerves in his face prickle.  Dean milks him until he's shaking.  It's too much, and he tries to push Dean away with sluggish hands.

"Fucking teenager," Dean bites, shoving the angel to his knees and pressing him back into the wall to keep him upright. Though Castiel can barely see, dazed with the aftershocks of agonizing bliss, he's aware of Dean unzipping his own jeans and pulling out his dick. He braces his forearm against the bricks, leaning over Castiel as he takes himself in hand. If he was rough with Castiel, he's ruthless in pleasuring himself. His grip is tight, his hips thrusting in time with the jerks of his wrist. Grunting, he stares down at Castiel with humanly green eyes, bottom lip slick with spit and blood.

"Gonna' mark you up," he groans, shudders. "Make you mine."

Castiel can only gaze up at him, watching as ecstasy conquers the features of his favorite human's face. He looks so much like _Dean_ , innocent and brave and beautiful, that Castiel feels like crying. He won't, but he could.

When Dean comes his seed splashes against Castiel's cheek and the corner of his lips, but Castiel can't force himself to be disgusted. He said Dean could do what he wanted with him and this is hardly an exception. Were Dean human, and they were doing this as lovers, he'd gladly let Dean have this.

As he pants and trembles through the end of his orgasm, Dean reaches down and drags his thumb through the mess on Castiel's cheek.

"Not for nothing, but you look real pretty like this, Cas," he rasps. He inserts his thumb into Castiel's mouth. "Clean it," he commands.

Though he's only had sex once, Castiel is seasoned at taking orders, so he begins to suck. He's never tasted release before, and he finds it bitter. But Dean asked him to take it, so he does.

When Dean removes his thumb again, Castiel almost whines at the loss, but it's soon back again, coated with more semen from the corner of Castiel's lips.

"Jesus," Dean breathes above him. Castiel finds his eyes and the pupils are blown black, but not in the demonic way he's come to expect. Dean is watching him with something akin to wonder, and it makes hope flare in his chest like he's never known.

Dean extracts his thumb from Castiel's mouth and examines it, bewilderment furrowing his brow.

"Dean, you—" Castiel begins, but is cut off when Dean suddenly slaps him. He tumbles to his side on the ground, shocked by pain. It's the hardest Dean's hit him so far.

As he tries to blink sight back into his eyes, Dean grabs him by the lapels and heaves him to his feet, before slamming him back into the wall again. Agony shocks through his whole body like an electrical current when his skull cracks against the brick. He feels bile rise in his chest, and is sure he'll be sick, but Dean is speaking and it takes everything Cas has to hear what he's saying.

" _What did you do to me?_ " he snarls.

"I…I didn't…" he mutters, so dizzy he slurs his words.  Blood oozes down the back of his neck.

"You did! You…"

Castiel doesn't hear whatever it is Dean is spitting at him, for the fog finally rises up to claim him, dragging him deep into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooo that was kinda raunchy, wasn't it....my B. 
> 
> Update to come soon. I love you like Kevin Tran loves standardized tests, hot dogs, and not having his eyeballs burned out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooohoo, chaptuh two.  
> Look at dis shit come atchu  
> Dean is a dork  
> and Cas is a n00b  
> If they put in the butt, I hope they use lube
> 
> *jazz hands*  
> *bows*  
> (i am a broken shell of a human being)

The slow climb back into consciousness is excruciating. As each part of him wakes, Castiel is forced to remember the injuries Dean gave him.  The back of his head throbs where it collided with brick, and his wrist radiates with pain, not to mention the sting of his swollen cheek where Dean slapped him.  On top of everything is the itch of the grace, doing little to heal his wounds. His body feels crippled. Part of him wishes the black had just taken him forever.  An eternity of nothing must be preferable to this.

He groans and struggles to blink open sticky eyelids.

"There's my angel," says a familiar voice. "Welcome back, sleeping beauty. You look fucking terrible."

"Dean?"

Cas turns his head towards the sound, his eyes focusing on the figure of his best friend, sitting cross-legged in chair a few feet away.

"Wh-where am I? What am I doing here?"

"Look around you. Where do you think you are?"

Only then does Castiel realize he's on a bed, with the familiar stench of dust and mold surrounding him. The light is yellow and dingy, the walls stained and adorned with bad paintings of men fly-fishing or duck hunting. It looks like every other room the Winchesters have inhabited over the years.

"Your motel."

"That's right…big gold star for you. You're in my shitty motel, and I carried you here all by myself. You're heavier than you look, you know."

"But...why? Why bring me here?"

Dean stares at him, concentration pulling down his brow in some parody of contemplation.  Though he seems calm, Castiel can feel an aura of malevolence oozing off him.

"That's an excellent question, Cas.  _Why?_  Why would I, a demon, decide to bring home a half-dead angel?"

"I don't know."

Rising to his feet, Dean approaches the bed like a beast stalking its prey. Cas wants to shy away, but even the smallest movement is agonizing. He remembers how furious Dean had been with him before he fell unconscious, how he'd screamed " _What did you do to me?_ " as the blackness came.

"You see, there I was with the blade in my hand, staring down at you, all passed out and marked up with my cum…" Dean looks down at his hand and flexes it, as if savoring the memory. "And I felt fucking  _weird_ , and pissed as all hell about it, wanted to make you pay, but just as I was pressing my blade to your neck…I hesitated." Dean kneels on the bed, crawling over to straddle Cas where he lies on his back. His knee jostles Castiel's wrist, making him yelp, but Dean shushes him and continues. "Not sure how long I was standing there, wondering why I would hesitate, since I haven't for a second since I got the Mark. You  _did_  something to me, and for the life of me I just couldn't figure out what it was.  _Then_  I thought to myself, 'What if I need him again?'"

Swallowing hard, Castiel stares up at Dean's face, trying to read him.

"What could you possibly need me for?" he asks.

"Well, for one thing, I'm getting a bit tired of the game."

"The…game?"

"Yeah, the game of charming some slut into bed with me. It can get real fucking tedious after a while, not that you'd know much about that. But you…you're the easiest lay I've had in ages. You just take it, even let me slap you around a bit." Dean demonstrates with a playful slap to Castiel's abused cheek. "Something about you…you're awkward as hell and you last about as long as a teenager with his dick in a wet sock, but damn, if that wasn't the best hook-up I've had in a long fucking time. Why wouldn't I want that on call when I need it?"

Castiel grimaces, repulsed that Dean could describe him in such a way. Castiel doesn't just bend over, doing anything someone desires regardless of his own feelings. He rebelled against  _Heaven_ , and that was just because Dean…

The truth strikes him like a kick, and shame, profound and familiar, lodges in his throat.

Dean. It's always Dean.

He  _let_  Dean treat him like an "easy lay," did hardly anything to stop him, just as he's let Dean do so many other things in the past. Were a few kisses and an orgasm really worth compromising his dignity? Is he so shameless? He even  _knew_  Dean felt nothing for him, not now or ever, and he still allowed himself to be used.

Castiel has always known something about him was fractured, but he never realized how deep the cracks ran. His brothers and sisters warned him from the start that getting too close to Dean Winchester was dangerous. For the first time he's starting to give credence to their counsel.

"I am not some toy of yours," he says, shutting his eyes against how feeble his protest sounds after the way he's behaved.

Hasn't he always just been a toy of Dean's? Whether it was coming whenever he called, running his errands, or following him anywhere he asked, Castiel serves him like he's the new God. Letting Dean exploit him sexually is hardly so different. Worse, Castiel knows that every time he  _didn't_  do as Dean asked, despite how his intentions revolved around Dean's safety, the consequences were so great that he wanted to kill himself. Just thinking about his deal with Crowley fills him with profound self-loathing.

 _I'm sorry, Dean_ , he remembers himself saying.  He thought they were his last words, with the maw to Purgatory gaping before him, and Dean, staring at him like he didn't know him anymore. 

"That's  _exactly_  what you are, buddy. My toy. I can do anything I want to you." To punctuate his point, Dean reaches behind his back and pulls out the First Blade from where it was tucked in his jeans. He holds it in front of Castiel's face, looming over him. Castiel's eyes widen. He can sense dark energy coming off the sharpened jawbone like a pungent odor. It makes everything angelic in him rankle.

"What are you going to do?" Castiel asks, keeping his voice steady.

"Whatever I want. You  _told_  me I could. And right now, I want some of that delicious blood of yours."

In a flash of movement, Dean pushes aside the collar of Castiel's shirt and scrapes the tip of the First Blade across his clavicle. Blood wells up, and Castiel squirms, but is held down by fatigue and Dean's unnatural strength.

"Now, now, Cas, that wasn't so bad. Just a scratch," Dean coos, placing the blade on the nightstand and leaning forward, bracketing Castiel's head between his forearms. Cas feels his breath on his face, and he can't help but inhale it, chasing the taste. He notices immediately that something is different. It's not much, but Castiel swears that the smoky, evil taint in Dean's scent has dissipated.

"That's the big reason I decided to keep you, you know. Your blood is…I couldn't put my finger on it before. It tastes…tastes like…"

"What, Dean."

Dean pauses, staring deep into Castiel's eyes like he wants to burrow inside him and carve out a home for himself.

"Like mom's apple pie and whiskey and a warm bath and an orgasm all rolled into one," he growls.

Black bleeds into Dean's eyes, and a ravenous smirk plucks at his lips. Curling down, he starts to lap at the cut on Castiel's chest.  Cas clenches his jaw at the sting, his eyes watering, but feels a reluctant twitch of arousal in his gut. 

"Fuck, that's good," Dean says, pulling back just enough to see his face. "You know anything about this? About demons digging the taste of angel blood?"

"I don't believe any demon has gotten close enough to an angel to drink their blood," Castiel says, forcing his brain to focus. "Usually the angel kills them before they have the opportunity. Also, I doubt any demons have considered trying."

"Guess that makes me special."

"There are many things that make you special, Dean. I wouldn't count being the first demon to drink angel blood among them."

Agitation flashes in Dean's expression.

"And why not?"

Castiel sighs.  

"You wouldn't understand," he mutters against his better judgment. 

Yet again, Dean's face contorts with anger.

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that the things I value in you have nothing to do with what you've become, and since you don't see the merit in those things anymore, there's no way for me to explain it to you.  They aren't emotions a demon would be able to comprehend."

"Oh, because angels are so goddamn in-tune with their emotions? You guys are fucking robots. At least a demon knows how to have fun."

"I haven't been a true angel for a long time," Castiel says bitterly.

Dean purses his lips, and Castiel tries not to find it endearing.

"Because of Metatron nicking your grace?"

Tensing, Castiel fears he's on the cusp of revealing more about himself than he's comfortable with. He chooses his words with as much care as he can muster.

"In some aspects, but no. I fell long before that, in many ways that were not physical."

"I'm guessing that was probably my fault."

With a rough swallow, Castiel casts his eyes to the side.  

"Correct."

Dean pauses for moment, and Castiel watches him out of the corner of his vision. After a moment of thought, Dean's face brightens.

"Ha, wait a minute…are you saying you  _fell_  for me, angel? Because that is one hell of pick-up line."

"It is simply the truth."

Dean opens his mouth to fire a retort, but nothing seems to come. Slowly, his lips close again, and he squints down at Cas like he's a puzzle Dean can't solve.

"You are one weird dude, you know that, Cas?"

Castiel doesn't answer. He just gazes up at his best friend, sad and resigned. He feels a pang of longing in his chest.

 _Oh, I miss you_ , he thinks.

"Stop—don't…don't look at me like that," Dean stammers, shaking his head and slapping his palm against the cut on Castiel's chest, making him wince.

"Like what?"

"Just stop."

"But—"

Cas is cut off by Dean grasping his battered face and crushing their mouths together in a crazed kiss. A small noise of surprise squeaks in Castiel's throat, his eyes slamming shut on instinct as Dean tilts his head to the side and tugs at his hair. It's easy for Dean to coax Cas into opening up for him, the taste of his spit like a balm to Castiel's nerve.  After only a few penetrating sweeps of tongue, Castiel starts to tremble, bombarded by Dean's sudden onslaught.

Then Dean nips at Castiel's lip, reopening the cut there and making blood well up.

"There it is," Dean rasps, before plunging his tongue into Castiel's mouth. Blindsided, Castiel can do nothing but take it.  He can vaguely sense that something inside Dean is becoming unhinged, though it's probable Dean was unhinged to begin with.  

In a last ditch effort to ground himself, Castiel uses the fingers of his good hand to clasp Dean's flannel, feeling like he'll float away without it to tether him down. Though the fabric is soft in his clammy hand, it does little to distract him from Dean's mouth.  The demon's movements are only getting more frantic.  Dean's fingers pull deliciously at his hair, and his teeth nip across his chin.  Castiel's skin is buzzing, charged by the scrape of stubble and blended patina of smeared spit.

"Cas," Dean mewls, quiet and perfect, and the last shred of Castiel's control crumbles.  He sinks into the mattress, utterly pliant, and surrenders. Everything about him is weak, from his wilted body to his broken resolve.  

Releasing his hair, Dean wedges his arms under Castiel's torso and squeezes him. He latches onto Castiel's bottom lip and suckles, small, distressed noises sneak from his mouth.

"Dean," Castiel breathes, when Dean finally pulls away to lave at the cut on his chest once again.

"So good, Cas. So good," is Dean's muffled reply. He sounds drugged.  "S'too much," he slurs.  "I...I can't..."

"Can't what?"

"I can't...do this."

Castiel snaps into focus, concern overriding lust.  

"Dean," he says again, cautiously reaching up and placing his palm on the side of Dean's head. "Are you alright?"

Dean squirms against him, making Castiel's eyelids flutter when their groins make contact. His motions are uncoordinated, frenetic.

"Oh yeah," Dean breathes. He grinds his hips down, and Castiel belatedly realizes how hard he is, how hard they _both_ are. It seems that even with so little strength or blood, Castiel's body has no choice but to respond to Dean. "Fuck, what  _is_  it with you? All you gotta' do is lie there and it still drives me fucking wild."

Dean kisses his way from Castiel's clavicle up his neck, to the angle of his jaw and the corner of his mouth. While Castiel basks in the attention, he wonders what's going on in Dean's head. It feels as though Dean is trying to claw his way to Castiel, like part of him is begging to be stolen from the darkness inside his own mind, yet every time he gets close something buries him again.

Suddenly, Dean pulls back, his gaze fastening with Castiel's.  He flinches when he sees Dean's eyes. They're green, but there's a manic, unfettered energy behind them that was never there before.

"Naked.  I need you naked.  _Now_ ," Dean demands.

"I…alright," Cas says, blushing despite himself.  He should have seen this coming.  "But you're going to have to help me. I can't move much."

Dean's hand snaps out, grabbing the First Blade off the nightstand. He goes to work tearing away Castiel's clothes, layer by layer.  Castiel's trench is ruined, which would be annoying if Castiel was going to be around long enough to need it.

"There are buttons, you know," Castiel reminds him as Dean slices through the waistband of his trousers.

"Buttons are for pussies," Dean grumbles, yanking Cas's pants off his legs and discarding them.

When Dean starts pulling Castiel's arm from the sleeve of his button-up, his bad wrist gets snagged in the fabric and he cries out. Strangely, Dean pauses at the sound, and when he slides the sleeve the rest of the way off, he's gentler than before.

"Sprained your wrist, huh," Dean says. For a moment Castiel doesn't answer, too surprised by Dean's question to process it. Dean raises an eyebrow.

"Well… _I_  didn't sprain it," Cas says, squinting accusingly.

"You shouldn't have pissed me off," Dean snaps, placing Castiel's arm back on the mattress and throwing the torn-up sleeve to the floor.

"I'll make a note of it."

Dean stares at his swollen wrist for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"Can't you just heal that thing?" he asks.

"No, I cannot."

"So…your mojo has faded pretty bad, then," Dean says quietly as he slices down Castiel's other sleeve. He makes quick work of removing what's left of his shirt.

"I should think that was obvious."

"Didn't I literally just tell you not to piss me off?" Dean bites, pointing the blade in his face. "Fuck, who taught you to sass, huh?"

"Probably you," Castiel replies, just as Dean says "Probably me."

They both halt, staring at each other for a long, confusing moment. Castiel wants to look away, but finds himself incapable. Something is changing in Dean, he's sure of it now. He can almost see the shadow of the man he called his best friend, hidden between the spokes of green in Dean's irises.

He's coming back. He knows he is.

Yet, just as he finally lets himself believe it, Dean's hand snaps forward and clenches around his neck, pressing on his Adam's Apple in an excruciating hold.

"I thought I told you not to look at me like that," Dean hisses through his teeth. His eyes are black again, and Castiel feels insanely vulnerable, lying there in nothing but his boxers while Dean is still fully clothed. Goosebumps break out over his skin, and he gags. He feels like his face is swelling, and his eyes fill with moisture. Every part of him is screaming for him to fight back, to kick and scream and throw punches, but he resists.

Finally, Dean releases him and Castiel coughs, curling in on himself as much as he can with Dean's weight still on his lap. While he catches his breath, Dean stares down at him.

"How am I looking at you?" Castiel cracks eventually. His voice sounds like he's been gargling shards of glass. "Perhaps if you tell me, I can avoid doing it."

" _You fucking know_ ," Dean yells, throwing himself off of Castiel's body with a shove and stumbling to his feet. He starts shedding his own clothes, sending errant buttons zipping around the room. Despite his discomfort, Castiel admires each bit of Dean's body as it's exposed to him, from the soft, supple curve of his stomach, to the strong muscles of his thighs. A warm current of pride flows through him. He did a good job putting that body back together after Hell tore it apart.

"Admiring the view?" Dean asks once he's down to boxer briefs. He crawls back onto the bed, settling on Castiel's lap once more. Cas jolts when their groins make contact with so little fabric between them now. He wants to place his hands on Dean's thighs, but he doesn't. 

"You know how attractive you are," Cas admonishes. 

"Yeah. Didn't think  _you_  knew though." Dean slides his hands down Castiel's chest and stomach, back up his sides, then down again. Castiel finds it terribly soothing. He's starting to get whiplash between the spikes in Dean's mood.

"What do you mean?"

"I dunno. When I was human I just…never saw this coming. Thought you weren't interested in anybody, let alone me. Then you fucked that reaper and I was—"

"Well, you were often oblivious to my feelings."

As soon as the words are out, Castiel flinches, ashamed that he let some of his bitterness show. It's just that he doesn't want to talk about the damn reaper with Dean ever again. Clearly, it had been a stupid mistake on his part. The only reason he played into Dean's apparent  _excitement_  over it was to mask his own feelings of regret and rejection. Part of him foolishly hoped that Dean would be jealous. Instead, he got kicked out of the bunker like he was nothing, and while Castiel knows the reason for it now, the scar remains. At least Dean was kind enough not to mention his imaginary date with Nora after it was clear she had no interest in Castiel, though Dean still left him penniless and alone once that case was done.

How Castiel ever thought Dean might have feelings for him is a mystery to him now.

"I wasn't—" Dean starts, cutting himself off. Again, he looks perplexed by his own words. "Why the fuck are we talking about this? I didn't drag your ass here just for you piss and moan about your fucking feelings."

"No, you just want to have sex with me and drink my blood," Castiel says.

"I—" Dean starts. He rubs his hands over his face and rakes them back through his hair, making it stand on end. "Christ, do you ever stop talking? You were never this chatty before."

"Apologies."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I said to stop talking!"

"I'm just being polite."

Dean groans in frustration. The corner of Castiel's lip twitches with amusement.

"I'm a fucking demon, Cas. You don't have to be polite to a demon."

"Manners are very important."

"Oh, now you're just trying to piss me off, you son of a bitch."

"I don't have to try very hard."

Dean glares at him, and for a moment Castiel is sure he's going to throw himself into another fit of rage. Instead, Dean rolls his hips down, pushing their cocks together between the thin barrier of their underwear.

"Guess I'll just have to shut you up another way, since fucking choking you didn't seem to do the trick."

Castiel swallows hard, balling his fists at his side to stop him from gripping Dean's hips. His wrist twinges, grounded him.

Dean splays his hands on Castiel's chest, brushing over a nipple in the process and sending a tingle up Castiel's back. Slowly, Dean scratches his fingernails down Castiel's belly until they reach the waistband of his boxers. In one graceful motion, Dean lifts his pelvis and drags Castiel's underwear down below his dick. It springs free, slapping back against his stomach.

"You sure won the vessel lottery, didn't you, Cas?" Dean says hungrily, staring down at his exposed flesh. Dean runs his forefinger up Castiel's shaft, pausing to swirl at the sensitive spot below the head.

" _Dean_ ," Castiel chokes, going rigid to keep from arching into the contact. He can't believe he's letting himself give in to Dean's touches again, but what can he do? It's pointless to deny his attraction, not after everything he's done, confessed. Dean would see right through him anyway, considering the near-painful erection he's displaying.

"Fuck, you're sensitive," Dean says, almost to himself. With the coarse pad of his thumb, Dean trails the vein running up Castiel's penis, smirking when it twitches in response. His fingers circle and grip, teasing and nowhere close to satisfying. "I could play with you for hours."

Castiel really hopes he doesn't. He already has stars sparking at the edges of his vision, and a cold sweat is welling up all over his body. Withered as he is, every time Dean touches him it's like a shock, electrifying his raw nerves with too much sensation. In a way, it's like torture, which is probably Dean's intention.

Pupils blown and glistening with desire, Dean stares down at Castiel like he isn't sure he's real. With the hand not sliding up and down Castiel's dick, Dean folds aside the fly of his briefs and pulls out his own. Castiel's eyes lock on it. He didn't get much chance to see it the last time Dean pleasured himself, because he was too busy drinking in Dean's expression and trying not to pass out.

Of course, he has seen Dean naked in the past, whether it was when he pieced his body back together in Hell, or by accident the few times he flew in to see him when Dean was showering or changing. But Dean was never hard during those occasions, and the difference is everything.

When Dean takes both of them in the circle of his calloused hand, Castiel's eyes roll back and his mouth falls open, and before he realizes it he's clutching Dean's hipbones in a bruising hold. His sprain screams in protest, but he can't be bothered to care, not when his most sensitive part is aligned with Dean's.

"Jesus fuck, Cas," Dean rasps, jerking them both in short, tight thrusts. It's dry and rough. "We…we're gonna need lube."

With great reluctance written in his movements, Dean releases them and braces up on his knees so he can reach for the nightstand and yank open the drawer. He returns a second later with a bottle of lubrication in hand. Castiel eyes it dazedly, blinking and sucking in slow, quivering breaths.  He tries not to think about why Dean has it handy.  

Dean uncaps the bottle and pours a generous amount into his hand before tossing it aside. He applies to himself first, and Castiel is mesmerized by the wet slide. When Dean turns his attention to Castiel's length, however, it's a revelation. Cas had no idea how much slick would alter the sensation of being touched. He bucks, using his grip on Dean's hips to grind the man down onto him.

"Fuck," Dean huffs, a pretty pink flush fanning out across his cheekbones.  "Impatient, are we?" Though Dean is clearly going for confident indifference, his tone is tempered by the quake in his voice. He appears to be just as overwhelmed as Cas, if not more.

"I'm not sure how much longer I'll be alive, given the state of my grace. I'd prefer not to die before this is over." Castiel isn't sure why he chooses to remind Dean he's dying, since the response is usually ire. He isn't surprised when Dean's eyes flood with blackness.

" _Don't say that!_ " he roars, lifting his arm in the air in preparation to slap Castiel again. Castiel closes his eyes and waits. It's his own fault for provoking Dean, but he doesn't care. The fact that Dean seems to be affected by Castiel references to his death is the strongest evidence he has that some part of Dean's humanity remains. Even if Dean never requited the feelings Cas has for him, he always fought for his safety. It's an inherent part of who Dean is. He has to protect and save the people around him. It's how he finds purpose.

When moments pass without a blow, Castiel slowly opens his eyes, and is surprised by what he finds.

Dean's hands are clamped over his face. He's shaking, and it doesn't seem to be from anger.

"Dean?" Cas braves, reaching up to gently touch his fingertips to Dean's wrist. Dean's hand snaps out in a flash, clutching Castiel's fingers. His other hand falls away and reveals his expression.

He looks hurt, irate, and terrified. It's a bizarre amalgamation of emotion, and for a second Castiel is lost in the face of it.

"What's wrong, Dean?" he asks.

"You're doing something to me," Dean grits after a long silence. His breath hitches. "I…I don't want this. It hurts."

"Don't want what?"

Dean blinks down at him, still holding Castiel's hand, but looser than before. Ignoring his sprain, Castiel reaches up with his other hand and, with incredible delicacy, cups Dean's cheek. The skin is a landscape of warmth and stubble beneath his palm.

"Let me help you," he whispers, in what is either a move of extreme stupidity or bravery. Dean flinches, but doesn't pull away or hit him.

Suddenly, Dean collapses on top of him, taking Castiel's face between his hands. Castiel groans involuntarily when their cocks slide together as Dean moves, rattling his focus. When their eyes meet, Castiel is undone by the sheer wild desperation blazing in Dean's expression.

"Blood. I need more blood," Dean pants.  It's a plea more than a command.

Castiel knows he should protest, but he can't find the will. It's in his nature to give Dean what he wants, and he thinks Dean is asking for his blood because part of him knows it's bringing him back to his humanity. He can't let the opportunity slip away.

"Take it then. Take it all."

In a rush, Dean snatches the First Blade from the nightstand and presses it to the side of Castiel's throat, directly to Dean's bite mark.

Clarity washes over Castiel as the tip of the blade punctures his skin and blood flows free. Dean will leech him dry, the last of his grace will fade, and he will not be able to heal the damage. This is how Castiel the Seraph meets his end.

And yet, he's content with the idea. Castiel now knows for certain that yes, something  _is_  wrong with him.  He truly does serve Dean above all else. He accepts it in himself, because he knows, at the core of his very being, that Dean is worth it.  

The Dean he knew is righteous and kind, beautiful and deadly.  He loves with all that he is, fights with the bravery of the greatest warrior. Dean may not want him in the way Castiel desires, but it doesn't matter.  

Dean deserves to be saved.

Because maybe this _will_ change Dean, free him from the shackles of The Mark. Maybe Sam will find him again after Castiel is gone and they'll return to being brothers, just the two of them, as it was always meant to be. Castiel won't be in the way anymore. It's something worth dying for, and he'll take it after a long life of missteps and failures, where the blurred edge between right and wrong damned him to be hated by those he's loved most.

A memory suddenly pops up in his mind, so perfect he can't help but smile:

_You know me, always happy to bleed for the Winchesters._

Dean's plump and perfect mouth seals over the bloody slit at his neck. He drinks, moaning a gorgeous, riven sound.  No longer caring if Dean punishes him for his affection, Castiel wraps his arms around his back, and holds him close.

"It's okay," he murmurs, in case Dean should someday be human. He'll no doubt torture himself over this, taking responsibility for Castiel's decisions yet again. "Remember that I chose this."

Dean whines into his neck, pushing his hands under Castiel's body and clawing at his shoulders.

"I chose you," Cas breathes. "Over all else.  And I regret so much..."

" _Cas--_ "

"But I'll never regret you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come soon, you lil' demon nuggets. There probably won't be any more terrible poetry in my ANs but....again, lying shitbag, so I make no promises.
> 
> I love you like Cas loves spooning demon!Dean into submission. (and that's canon, bee tee dubz)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for the finale tonight?? I am. I am so ready. I was born ready. "Ready" is my middle name. I eat ready for breakfast. If I ever have a baby I'm gonna name it "Ready AF." You've never seen someone more ready, and you can take that to the bank.
> 
> (Footnote: I'm not fucking ready at all.)

“You should,” Dean slurs against his neck.  “You should regret ever meeting me.” 

“Why would I?”  Running his palms across Dean’s tense back, Castiel tries to soothe him.

“I ruined your life.”

“No, Dean.  You have been the greatest gift of my life.”

Dean shakes his head, digging his fingers into Castiel’s shoulders, and sucking hard on the wound.  With every mouthful of blood and grace Castiel can feel the life leaving him.  He doesn’t have much time left, and there are things he needs to say; secrets he’s kept for reasons he can’t remember anymore.  “It’s true, Dean.  All the years of my existence, all of my quests, the things I’ve seen… they meant nothing to me before you.”

Shuddering against him, Dean slams his fist into the headboard.  The noise startles a gasp out of Castiel, and Dean sinks his teeth into skin.  It hurts more than Castiel’s anticipating, and when he grunts in pain, Dean stops biting him.  His tongue spreads over the cut, as though trying to smooth away the sting.

“Don’t say that,” Dean says.  “You son of a bitch, why do you keep doing that?”

Castiel squints in confusion.

“I don’t know what it is I keep doing, Dean." 

“Looking at me the way you do, saying things like that.  It’s not fair.  You should hate me.  It would be easier if you did.”

“I don’t think I could ever hate you."

Dean slams his fist into the headboard again, making splintered wood fly around them.  Castiel is grateful Dean has decided to take his rage out on an inanimate object rather than Castiel’s body, since one more blow would probably kill him, and he's not quite ready to go yet.

Bracing on his forearms, Dean glares down at Castiel’s face.  His lips are swollen and red, and Castiel can’t help but stare at them.  For years he’s forced himself not to gaze at Dean’s lips when they speak, with varying degrees of success, because of Dean’s aversion to his “personal space” being violated.  He can’t see much point in holding himself back now given the things those lips have done to him.  The truth is, if he could, Castiel would probably let Dean kiss him forever.

“You’re doing it again!  _Stop it._ ”

“I can’t,” Cas whispers.

“The fuck is wrong with you, huh?” Dean spits.  “I don’t get it.  How can you just…let me hurt you and still you look at me like--”

“Because I want this.  I deserve it after all I’ve done.  So many mistakes.  I should have done better for you.  I should have saved you,” Castiel rambles.  His limbs are starting to feel numb.

Dean buries his face against Castiel’s shoulder, making his next words muffled and soft.

“I’m not yours to save, Cas.” 

Castiel swallows around an ache in his throat.

“I know.”  Dean isn’t his.  He never was, he never will be.

“I’m past saving.  I’m poison.  Even if I lose the black eyes, the things I’ve done…”

“It wasn’t you, Dean.  Not truly.”  Castiel curls his fingers into Dean’s hair.

“How do you know?  You don’t know me—“

Castiel cuts him off as fast as he can.

“I know you, Dean.  There are things I’ve done wrong by you, ways that I’ve mishandled your trust and our friendship, but I know you, Dean.  I know you as well as it’s possible to know someone.”

Dean freezes, the undulation of his hips halting and his body going rigid. 

“You believe that?  Even now?  You're dumber than I--”

“I do.  And you, Dean, you are _good_.”

After a silence, Dean suddenly sags against him, pliant and warm.  He presses their temples together, and breathes against the slit on Castiel’s throat.

“Cas, I need--”

“What, Dean?”

“Shut up and listen.  I need you to know…you said I killed innocent people.”

“Yes, but—“

 “ _Listen to me_ ,” Dean growls.  A demonic pulse hisses through his words, and Castiel’s teeth click shut.  “They weren’t innocent.”

“What?”  Castiel cants his head so he can look at him, but the angle only reveals the side of his face and little of his expression.

“I never killed anyone who didn’t…”  Dean sounds as though pulling the words from inside himself is painful. 

“Yes?”

“…who didn’t do something bad.  I shouldn’t have killed anyone but they weren’t innocent, Cas.  I need you to know that.”

“Dean,” Cas breaths on an exhale.  In an instant some of the black, rotting dread on his heart lifts, shed by the fact that even the Mark couldn’t snuff out the goodness in his best friend.  His moral code is too ingrained.  Castiel feels like he’s falling for with the righteous man all over again.

Quaking with fatigue, Castiel spreads his legs and wraps them around Dean’s hips and thighs, drawing him in as close as possible.  Their erections slide and align, demanding a shudder from both of them.  Slowly, Dean starts to grind his hips down.  The sensation of wet friction is unique and wonderful, and infinitely better than his experience with the reaper, though Castiel doesn’t grant her more than a passing thought.  This moment is for him and Dean alone.

“Is this okay?” Dean mouths, so quietly Castiel almost misses it.  Adoration swells in Castiel’s chest.

“Yes.”

When Dean’s lips return to the cut, his hair tickles Castiel’s cheek.  Inhaling deeply, Castiel savors the smell of it, so familiar to him now.  And yet he swears he can sense himself woven into Dean’s scent, as though his own essence is replacing the taint of evil.  Perhaps that’s how angel blood works; by inserting itself where demon smoke had been.

It suddenly occurs to Cas that a part of himself is _inside_ Dean, though it’s not the more lurid part he’d fantasized about in the cage of his own mind.  He figures it’s a fitting way for the last of him to fade; absorbed into the body Castiel pieced back together from nothing.  It’s a welcome end. 

Still, he has things to say before his fate takes him.

“You’re going to survive this, Dean, as you always do.  You’re going to return to Sam, and someday you’ll forget about all this.  I promise you.”

“No,” Dean growls, thrusting his hips down and making Castiel see stars.  For a split second he thinks he’s come, but when Dean slows back down he knows he’s still on the edge, aching and unsatisfied.

“ _Yes_ , Dean, you will.”  Castiel’s voice is so gravelly he doubts he’ll be able to use it for much longer.

“No.  I’ll never forget this…what you did to me.  What you’re _doing_ to me.”

“Dean—“

“ _I hate you_ ,” Dean snarls through bloodied lips, pulling back just enough to look into Castiel’s eyes.  There are tear tracks striping his freckled cheeks, and a fury shining in his eyes.  His words stab through Castiel’s chest, cracking him open and stealing his breath.  “I’ll hate you forever for this.”

Eyes prickling, Cas slowly shuts his mouth and nods.  Part of him knew this was inevitable, or perhaps already true.  While he wasn’t human for long, Castiel learned enough about the tapestry of guilt and agony and longing that humanity inflicts.  He can’t imagine what Dean, who always judged himself so harshly, will think of the things he’s done once he’s lost the armor of demon apathy.  It’s only one more reason why Dean should despise Castiel.

“I know,” Castiel whispers at last.  “I’m sorry.”

“You’re always sorry.”  Dean’s words are an echo from fights long past.  It reminds him how many times he’s failed.

“I’m selfish, Dean.  I know I am.”

Pressing their foreheads together, Dean sighs into Castiel’s mouth.  His hips move slow and tortuous. 

“How could you do this to me?” Dean breathes, before nipping Castiel’s bottom lip between his teeth and licking blood from the split there. 

“I couldn’t die with you a demon.”

“You should have killed me,” he says, gaze burrowing into Castiel’s.  “You should have put me down.  It would have been kinder.”

“I couldn’t.  Never, I—“

Dean cuts him off with a kiss.  It’s unlike any kiss they’ve shared so far.  It’s deep, but careful and intimate.  It’s intense, and their thrusts against each other roughen, but it’s also undemanding.  Castiel realizes it’s the first time he’s felt like he was kissing his best friend.

A sudden wave of dizziness surges behind Castiel’s eyes, making the room dip and spin around him.  He gasps, breaking the kiss despite how much he doesn’t want to.  Dean, whose pupils are blown with lust, seems to mistake his distress for arousal.  His mouth latches on Cas’s neck and his grip tightens on his shoulders.  Grinding against him, hard, he makes pleasure lance between them.

Spots dance across Castiel’s vision, his chest constricting and making it difficult to breathe.  He knows that the end is coming, too much of his grace gone now to keep him alive.  His heart pounds, what’s left of his blood rushing to his groin.  Clawing at Dean’s back, he can’t seem to make himself tell Dean to stop.  Instead, he tells Dean his secrets.

“You were right,” his voice cracks, letting his fingers weave through the hair on the back of Dean’s head.  “I have always wanted you…”

“ _Cas_ -“ Dean mouths into his throat.  He drinks from him with violent fervor.

Castiel lets the truth pour, unsifted, from his lips.  They’re words he’s kept locked inside him for what feels like centuries, and it’s his last chance to set them free.

“…from the moment I touched you.  You burned so bright.  Your soul, I’d never seen anything so beautiful, beyond stars and seas and all the treasures of the universe.  It was…devastating.  Seeing that, I was too weak.  It shouldn’t have been me, Dean.  It shouldn’t have been me who found you…because it broke me.  I severed from myself, from heaven and God.”  Dean sobs into his skin, his body wracked with tremors as his hips brutally rub against Castiel’s, barreling them toward release.  Castiel feels hot, cloudy tears burn paths down his cheeks, but he speaks on, confessing his sins.  “I’ve been wandering ever since, caught in your orbit, and never worthy of the gift of knowing you.  I am so sorry Dean.  You deserved so much more than me.”

“Please, please don’t,” Dean grits, his pleas dripping with Castiel’s blood. 

A black ring curls into the edges of Castiel’s vision as he feels his abdomen coil with pleasure.  Dean’s nails carve ovals into his skin.

“I don’t want this.  I don’t want to remember.  Please don’t make me,” Dean continues to beg.  He sounds like he’s in pain, and it tears Castiel up inside to know that he’s the cause, but he can’t make himself regret forcing Dean back to his humanity.

“I am so sorry, Dean,” he says anyway.

“Can’t lie to demon, Cas,” Dean whispers, his words a resentful throwback.  He punctuates with a deep suck of Castiel’s blood.

“I know.”

Dean’s thrusts build, and Castiel feels like he’s caught in a storm.  He’s ready for the end, can’t hold on any longer, and he knows what he wants the last thing he sees to be after his long, waste of a life.

“Come for me, Dean.  Please, let me see you.”

Dean’s head jerks back in an instant, pitch black demon’s eyes locking with blue. 

“Please,” Castiel whispers against his mouth, and, as though he can’t help but obey, Dean does.  His jaw falls slack with bliss, the blackness in his eyes bleeding away to reveal sparkling green.  It’s the visual Castiel has prayed for.  He sees _Dean_ , whole and unsullied, with his kind eyes and laugh lines and endearing freckles. 

Answering ecstasy rakes through his own body, scorching and draining the last of his strength.  It turns him inside out and takes the last of his life from him. His arms and legs fall, useless, to the mattress. 

The last thing he sees are Dean’s eyes, but all the orgasmic elation has left them.  He looks like Castiel has betrayed him, like Castiel has hurt him in the worst way imaginable. 

He looks like Castiel has broken his heart.

Castiel is aware, distantly, that Dean is shaking him and calling his name, though it’s nothing but an echo. 

He lets himself fall into black and thinks, with a bitter smile,

 _Dean Winchester is saved_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly short chapter but I know some people were ready to hang me for the delay in updating so...well, here it is. Now that I'm not doing 8 million plays at a time I should be able to finish this puppy off soon. Thank you for your patience! 
> 
> I love you so much I'd resist the fluffing Mark of Cain simply because you said "please."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never, right?

The first thing Castiel is aware of is beeping.  It’s a gentle, consistent sound, and he chases it, letting it pull him to light.  His body is heavy and his throat is dry, and it takes what feels like years to convince his eyes to open.  They burn under the glow of florescent bulbs.

“Cas?” says a familiar voice.

“Dea-“ he tries to reply, but his voice cracks.  His vision is fuzzy, and his head churns with dizziness.  Thin plastic is pressed against his bottom lip.  When it tilts, ice water sluices into his mouth and he gulps, moaning as it cools his throat. 

“That’s enough for now,” Dean says when he pulls the cup away and Castiel whines at the loss, craving more.  “You can have another cup in a bit.”

“Dean,” Cas tries again, succeeding in speaking this time.  He turns his head and blinks at the blurry figure looming over him.  After a few moments, Dean comes into focus.  “Is this my heaven?”

 Dean snorts.

“No, Cas.  You’re in a hospital.”

“But…why?”

Dean rolls his eyes.  His _green_ eyes, Castiel notices.  The sight triggers something in him, like a switch being flicked, and suddenly Castiel remembers.

“Dean.  Are you—“

“Human?  Yeah.  Pretty sure.”  In demonstration, Dean lifts his right arm so Castiel can see the bandages spiraling from his bicep to wrist.  A few tendrils of blackened skin peek out near his hand.  “Or at least the Mark is definitely gone.”

“It’s _what?_ ” Castiel gasps, trying to sit up but failing when his skull pounds in protest.  Despite his pain and confusion, Castiel feels lighter than he has in years, so overjoyed that Dean is free that his eyes sting with tears, waiting to fall.  He holds them back.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Dean asks.

Castiel squints, his gaze shifting to the side.  He takes in some of his surroundings, noting that they’re alone in the sterile room and that he’s hooked up to an I.V.  There’s a cast on his wrist and gauze bandages stuck to his neck and chest.  He thinks one might be wrapped around his head.

With a deep breath, he tries to order his thoughts.

“We were…in a motel room.    And you were drinking my blood.”

It’s almost imperceptible, but Dean flinches.  Castiel goes on, pretending not to notice.

“I was dying and you were starting to…be _you_ again because, I believe, my grace was healing you.”

“And?” Dean pushes.

“And we, um—” 

Castiel feels his cheeks heat as he recalls Dean’s face when it was conquered by bliss, the way his pupils dilated and his skin flushed between his freckles.  He knows Dean will be disgusted by the idea of having sex with Castiel now that he’s himself again. 

 _He would never let you touch him_ , the demon had said. 

“Yeah, ‘ _um_ ,’” Dean says significantly.  He stares at him with a furrow in his brow, his expression unreadable.

“I’m so—“

“Keep going,” Dean snaps.  “I know that’s not all of it.”  

Cas sucks in a slow, deep breath, trying to focus.

“The last thing I remember is you calling my name.  Your eyes were green, and then everything went black.”

“Huh,” Dean says.  He turns and pulls up a chair before sinking into it.  With his arms crossed over his chest, he stares at the space beside Castiel’s head.  Cas braces himself for whatever Dean decides to hurl at him. 

“Well, after everything ‘went black’ I tried to wake you back up.  I shook you, and when I did your eyes flew open and all this light, which I’m guessing was the last of your grace, shot out of you and went into me.”

“What,” Castiel mouths, shocked.  He’s never heard of anything like this happening before, not with a human and certainly not with a demon.

“Yeah.  Then I had the wonderful experience of lighting up like a Roman fucking candle, feeling like my insides were being torched out.  All this blue fire came out of the Mark and as you can see, it burned me pretty bad,” Dean says, gesturing to his bandaged arm.  “Doc says I’m gonna’ have some gnarly scars to add to my collection.”

“I’m…sorry,” Castiel says, at a loss.

“No you’re not.”

“I’m sorry you were in pain,” he clarifies. 

“Yeah, well…I’m not the one who just had a massive blood transfusion.  Or who has a concussion, or a sprained wrist and about twenty stitches.”  Dean lists Castiel’s injuries like they’re accusations.

“I gather this means I’m human now too.”

“No shit.”

Castiel nods.  He’s learned what being human means.  It means he’s weak, and alone, and useless.  It means Dean won’t need him anymore, not that he’ll want him around after what he’s done.  When he thinks about it, he isn’t sure how Dean can even stand to look at him.  Regardless of whether or not Dean is happy to be free of the Mark, there’s no way he’s happy with the way he lost it.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Cas,” Dean says, drawing him out of his thoughts.

Castiel looks back at him, surprised to find Dean meeting his eyes.  He blinks when he sees how dead they are, like all the vibrance and passion has been leeched from the green.  He looks at Castiel like he feels nothing for him except contempt, and somehow this is worse than when they were black.  This is _Dean_ despising him, wholly himself.

“I know,” is all Cas can mumble in reply.

“You should have let me go.”

“I told you; I couldn’t.  I’m sorry.”

“If you apologize to me one more fucking time, Cas, I swear to God…”

Castiel doesn’t want to hear what Dean will do to him, so he closes his eyes and settles back against his pillows.  It’s cowardly, but he wishes that the dark had just taken him so he wouldn’t have to see Dean’s resentment, his disgust.  He craves the release of death, had prepared himself for it. 

He must nod off because when he opens his eyes again there’s orange morning light filtering through the window when it had been dark before.  He steals himself before he glances at Dean’s chair, not sure if he’s hoping the man will be gone or not. 

An unexpected surge of fondness fills him when he sees Dean, who is asleep and leaning against his hand.  The lines around his eyes are soft, his lips parted, a bit of spittle at the corner of his mouth.  He’s curled in his uncomfortable-looking chair like a child, and he seems so much like _Dean_ that for a moment Castiel doesn’t hate himself for what he’s done.

“I told you; it’s just creepy,” Dean mutters, startling Cas so badly he almost yanks the needle out of his arm.  A blush burns at his ears.

“Sorry, I was—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean sighs, stretching and popping a few vertebrae in his neck.  “I’m used to you watching me sleep at this point.”

“I was merely—“

“I’m gonna’ go get your doctor.  She wanted to talk to you when you woke up, and I don’t know about you but the sooner we get cleared out of here the better.  Hospitals give me the heebs and/or jeebs.”

“We?” Castiel asks before he can stop himself.  Dean halts in his path across the room, his shoulders tensing.

“Yeah Cas, ‘we.’  After what you did do you think I have a choice?”

Cas shakes his head, his brow pulling down. 

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.”  

Castiel always wants Dean with him, of course he does, but not out of duty or worse, pity.

“Please do not feel as though you have some obligation to stay with me.  In fact, I think it’s better if you go.”

A flash of anger glints in Dean’s eyes, but he reels it in so fast that it’s as clear a sign as any that he is rid of the Mark.  And that everything Castiel says seems to infuriate him.

“I’m staying with you until you’re better and that’s the end of it.  After that you can do what you want.  Besides, the doctor says you need someone to keep an eye on you for the next couple weeks, in case your body rejects the blood.”

“You could call Sam,” Cas suggests, regretting it when he sees the color drain from Dean’s face.

“No,” is all he says, flat and final.  He strides across the room to the door, but turns before he exits.  “Oh, and I told the doctor you were attacked by a mugger while I wasn’t there, so unless you want me to go to jail, which, hey, you might, I wouldn’t tell them I put you in here.”

Dean disappears before Cas has a chance to tell him, yet again, that what happened wasn’t his fault.

While Dean is gone Cas slips in and out of consciousness, his mind swallowed by memories of what he let Dean do to him, and the way Dean felt and smelled.  It tortures him, makes him think he can still taste Dean on his tongue, and feel the echoes of teeth in the bite marks he left behind.

When Dean returns with the doctor he startles Cas back to consciousness by slamming the door into the wall.  He refuses to make eye contact with him no matter how hard Cas tries to catch his gaze, while Castiel is subject to a briefing on his condition from the perky doctor. 

Apparently he was saved with a massive blood transfusion, having lost almost a liter of blood between the injuries to his neck and head.  He’ll need to be watched closely for the next two weeks in case he has a bad reaction to the blood, but he’s cleared to check out, which is a relief.  Like Dean, he hates hospitals with a passion.

When the doctor asks if Dean can bring him back in a week so his stitches can be removed, he replies with nothing more than a mumbled “ _fine_.”  Castiel vows to rip them out himself, though he knows Dean is as qualified as any doctor to tend to them.  Still, he has no intention of asking for anything from Dean.  He knows he’s taken enough.

Listening to the doctor’s lecture and watching Dean avoid looking at him is marginally less exhausting than fabricating a fake mugging story to a police officer.  Castiel figures the best policy is to feign memory loss from his head injury to avoid saying anything that could implicate Dean.  As he speaks, Cas can swear he feels Dean’s eyes on him, but whenever he glances over Dean is staring at the floor or ceiling.  It’s especially uncomfortable when the man takes pictures of Castiel’s injuries to keep on record.

“Sounds like you’re pretty lucky your partner came around to save you.  We might have lost you if it wasn’t for him,” the officer says as he makes his exit.

“I know,” Cas mutters, swearing he hears a snort from Dean at his words.

The officer’s exit heralds the entrance of the nurse, who begins unhooking Castiel from the array of machines surrounding him.  Dean watches her with his arms crossed and back stiff.

“You gonna' stand there or can you give me a hand?” she asks him when she tries lifting Castiel into a sitting position.

“I can manage on my own,” Cas mutters, staring down at his lap as he heaves himself to the edge of the bed.  He grunts in pain when he swings his legs over the side, a few of the stitches on his chest pulling.  Every muscle in his body feels battered, making the slightest movement a challenge.

“Like hell you can,” Dean snaps, breaking from his stasis and striding across the room.  “I’ll do it.  Why don’t you get him a wheelchair, Ratchet? The less he has to walk to better.”

“Oh…alright,” the nurse stammers, scampering from the room.  Dean doesn’t need black eyes to be intimidating, as Cas knows all too well.

“Dean, I told you, you don’t owe me anything.”

“How about for once you let me make my own decision about that?”

Tilting his head down, Cas offers a miniscule nod.  After a sucking in a breath, Dean reaches out to take Castiel’s forearm.

The instant their skin makes contact a spark of penetrating, overwhelming sensation shoots through Castiel’s body.  It climbs up his insides until it rushes into his head, ripping his mind free and shoving it through every pore where their skin is pressed together.  Castiel’s eyes find Dean’s, who must be experiencing the same thing because the words “ _what the fuck?_ ” ring between Castiel’s ears.  But then Castiel realizes Dean’s lips hadn’t moved.  He hadn’t made a sound.  The words were spoken as though Dean was inside of him.

Dean jerks his hand away and digs his fingers to his temple.  He gawps at Cas, mouth working around aborted words.

"Did...was that...did I just," Dean stammers, eyes wide.  “Did I just hear you in my head?"

"You heard me?"

“You said I was talking without moving my lips, only your mouth didn’t move when you said it either.”

“I heard you too.” .

"In your head?"

"Yes, in my head."

"Holy shit."

“I…this is very strange," Cas says, at a loss.

“No shit it's fucking strange!  So, what, we can now telepathically speak to each other whenever I touch you?”

“It would seem so.”

“Is this some kind of curse?” Dean spits, chest puffing up.  "Is it curable?  What the fuck, Cas!?"

“I don’t know."

“Oh, that’s just great.  You put some Professor X angel brain spell on me and you don’t know anything about it.  Awesome, Cas.  Fucking wonderful.”

"It's not as though any of these circumstances have happened before, Dean."

Cas watches Dean pace across the room, waiting with his fingers clenched in the sheets for the inevitable explosion. 

“Dean, I swear I didn’t do this intentionally—“

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean says, halting in his steps and turning to level Castiel with a glare.  “You know what, it doesn’t matter.  We’ll talk about this when we get to the motel.  That nurse is going to be back soon and they aren’t gonna’ let you leave wearing nothing but that weird dress, and we need to get the fuck out of here.”

For a moment Castiel is shocked that Dean is abandoning the issue so readily.  He’s reminded again that the demon is gone, since he can’t imagine that version of Dean easing up for anything.  He watches as Dean retrieves a folded t-shirt and jeans from his own duffle where it’s wedged in the corner.

“Your clothes were trashed so you’re gonna’ have to wear mine,” he mumbles, tossing them at Castiel’s head. 

It’s a grueling process stripping himself of the cotton hospital gown, his body rebelling at every move.  Dean’s fists twitch at his side, his eyes darting around the room to look anywhere but at Castiel as he drags the clothing onto his body as fast as he can, which is to say not fast at all.  When Castiel attempts to pull the jeans up his legs, his wrist screams in protest, and he can’t help the whimper that escapes his throat.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean says before striding toward him.  With a deep breath, Dean grips the belt loops of the jeans and tugs them up Castiel’s legs.  He’s clearly being careful to avoid making contact with Castiel’s skin, for which Cas is deeply grateful.  He can’t imagine anything more horrifying than Dean knowing the thoughts clattering around his head. 

Castiel swallows when Dean slots the pants over his hips and starts fiddling with the button and fly.  Thankfully he manages to fasten them without touching Cas, his brow puckered in concentration as he bites his lip between his teeth.  Unbidden, images of when Dean’s hands were last intimate with his groin flash in Cas’s mind.  He bites back a wave of nausea, hating himself for craving that Dean touches him that way again.

“I can do it,“ Cas says when Dean starts sliding socks onto his feet.

“Bullshi—“ Dean begins to say, his words dying on his tongue when his fingers accidentally graze the skin of Castiel’s ankle.

“ _…hate that I have to do this after_ —“

Dean jerks his hands back like he’s been burned before Castiel hears the rest of the thought.  It doesn’t matter.  He heard enough to confirm how Dean feels about caring for him.

When Dean reaches to put Castiel’s other sock on his foot, Castiel flinches away from him.

“Don’t!”

Dean freezes, staring at Castiel with a strange look in his eyes.  If Castiel hadn’t just heard his thoughts, he’d think there was hurt woven into the green.  As soon as he glimpses it, however, it disappears, Dean schooling his expression into a blank mask.

“Fine.”  He tosses the sock onto Castiel’s lap.  “Do whatever you want, since you don’t need me.”

“That’s not—“

Castiel is cut off by the nurse returning with the wheelchair she promised.

“Okay, Mr. Winchester, you ready to get out of here?” she says to Castiel.

Cas blinks owlishly at her. 

“I…my name—“

“He’s ready,” Dean interrupts, shooting him a look.  Dean must have given the staff his own last name since Castiel doesn’t have one.  He knows it’s foolish to assume Dean’s reasoning was for the sake of anything other than convenience, but he can’t help the warmth that blossoms in his chest.  He wonders if they think Dean and him are family.

“Will you help me get him in the chair?” the nurse asks, tentative. 

Dean’s eyes dart to Castiel.

“I don’t need help,” Castiel insists, hoping to spare Dean from touching him.  It hurts, but he shoves himself out of bed and into the chair before either of them can stop him.  He hisses when his wrist knocks against the armrest, but is otherwise unscathed.  He’s steadier on his feet than he would have expected.

“Stubborn one you’ve got here,” the nurse says, patting Castiel on the arm.

Dean doesn’t reply.

“So you two have somewhere you can stay, right?  I know you’re out-of-towners,” the nurse says as she walks with them down the hall, Dean pushing the wheelchair.

“Cas has a motel booked, so we’ll be going there.”

“A nice motel, I hope?”

“As nice as it needs to be.”

Dean’s tone signals the end of the subject, and Castiel is grateful for his ability to manipulate his way out of any conversation.  He’s also grateful that Dean is choosing not to seduce this nurse out of their way, as he has so many times in the past.  Cas doesn’t think he could handle it.

By the time Dean cons their way out the check-out desk and gets him settled in the passenger seat of the Impala, it’s a challenge for Castiel to keep his eyes open.  The familiar growl of the engine soothes him on a primal level, despite how the interior of Dean’s beloved car is a mess of food wrappers, empty beer bottles, and dried blood that is probably Castiel’s.  

Out of the corner of his eye Cas catches Dean eying the disarray with disgusted scowl.  It pleases him to see another sign that Dean is himself again.  The corner of his lip twitches.

“The hell are you smiling about?” Dean grumbles, picking up an old banana peel between two fingers and tossing it out the window as he skids out of the hospital parking lot.

“Nothing.  It’s just nice to be in your car again,” Cas says through a smirk.

“Oh yeah, real nice.  Like taking a joy ride in a dumpster.”

“You’ll get it back to where it was soon.”

Dean’s eyes flicker to Castiel.

“No, Cas.  I don’t think it will ever be what it was again.”

Castiel’s teeth click shut.  He doesn’t need to hear Dean’s thoughts to know they aren’t talking about the Impala anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you like Dean loves finding every excuse to longingly clutch Castiel's face and stare into his eyes


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taste the rainbow.  
> \- Jared Padalecki

Dean unlocks the door to Castiel’s motel room before kicking it open so hard that it crashes into the wall.  Cas is surprised it doesn’t gouge a hole out of the sheetrock, but says nothing, preoccupied with leaning against the door frame and trying not to pass out.

“You coming in or not?” Dean’s voice snaps from inside the room, accompanied by a litany of banging. 

“I suppose,” Cas sighs.

When he trudges onto the stained carpet, shutting the door behind him, he finds Dean with the plastic bags of supplies and prescriptions they’d purchased dumped at his feet.  He aggressively sifts through his own duffle where it lays on the bed, wincing every time the burned section of his wrist scrapes against the zipper.  He doesn’t seem bothered by the pain enough to stop digging through his belongings, though.  Castiel wonders what kind of objects the demonic version of Dean saw fit to carry with him on his road trip. 

“What are you looking for?” Cas asks hazily, his eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and the painkillers crawling in his blood.  He shakes his head, trying to dispel some of his dizziness but only serving to aggravate it.

When Dean glances at him he double takes.

“Woah, there,” he says, abandoning his duffle and stepping towards him with his hands splayed.  “You’re white as a ghost.  You need to lie down before you keel over.”

Dean’s words seem to remind Castiel’s brain that keeling over is an excellent idea, and he begins to do just that, his knees turning to water and his eyes rolling back.  Dean lunges forward, grabbing him around the waist before he falls. 

The second Cas’s forehead presses into the bend of Dean’s neck a flood of thoughts and feelings that aren’t his own rush into his mind.

_"Shit, should’ve been keeping an eye on him, can’t even walk on his own, stupid, worthless, can’t do anything right, hate you, I hate you."_

It takes all of Castiel’s scarce energy, but he wrenches his head back from Dean’s skin before he has to hear any more.  It’s one thing to know Dean hates him, it’s quite another to hear him say it, especially when he has to feel the revulsion behind the thought inside his own mind.  He squirms, pushing out with clenched fists and ignoring the searing pain in his wrist.

“Hey, settle down,” Dean says like Castiel is some wild animal.  He grips Castiel’s upper arms hard where fabric provides a barrier, and steadies him.  “I’m gonna pick you up to get you on the bed, okay?  I won’t touch your skin, I promise.  I don’t like this any more than you do.”

Castiel pants, blinking stars out of his vision, and soon nods, desperate now to collapse on the bed but not trusting his feet to carry him.  Everything hurts in every possible way.

 _Stupid.  Worthless._   The words echo in his head, said in Dean’s voice and lacerating him from the inside out.  He swallows around a hard lump in his throat.

In one swift motion Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s legs and another behind his back, lifting him into a bridal carry.  Cas keeps his hands held tight to his chest, and tries not to notice the way Dean’s jaw is clenched like he’s doing something that disgusts him. 

Dean’s gentle in laying Castiel on the bed, and Cas can’t help but whimper in relief at the feeling of a soft pillow cushioning his pounding head.  He stares up at the hunter with vision clouded at the edges, only just realizing that Dean had supported him with an arm covered in burns.   Dean jiggles his hand like he’s trying to shake out the pain.

“Your arm,” Cas says through heavy lips.

“It’s nothing,” Dean grunts, grabbing a couple water bottles from the plastic bags and placing them on Castiel’s bedside table.  He turns back to his duffle and resumes his quest for whatever it is inside that alludes him.  “Nothing I don’t deserve.”

“You don’t—“

“Aha!” Dean exclaims when he finally pulls out what he’d been searching for, holding it out to Cas triumphantly like it’s some kind of prize.  “Just what the doctor ordered.”

“Medication?” Cas asks, confused.  “But we already picked up our prescriptions.”

“No, Cas, not meds.  It’s tea.  You…I thought you said you liked tea.  Once.”

Cas blinks slowly.

“I do, but…”

“Great, so there you go,” Dean says, tossing the box onto the duvet near Cas’s hip.  He looks back and forth from it to Castiel several times, clearly expecting something.  The fingers on his burnt arm twitch.

“I…didn’t know you liked tea as well,” Cas says eventually, at a loss.  “Enough to carry it around, I mean, considering you were a demon.”

A rosy flush blossoms on Dean’s cheeks, so unexpected that Castiel is struck in the face of it. 

“Do you want the damn tea or not?” Dean snaps.  Cas sighs, letting his tired eyes slide closed.

“I don’t care.”  About the tea, or anything.  At least not before a long night’s sleep and a dosing of painkillers. 

 _Stupid.  Worthless._ The words play incessantly in his head like a message from Heaven.  Not that he gets those anymore. 

There’s a long silence that eventually forces Castiel into looking at Dean again.  He finds him staring down at the box of tea on the bed, his brow puckered and bottom lip caught between his teeth.  Even as tired as he is, the sight twinges something in Castiel.

“Tea would be nice, thank you.”

“I’ll heat up some water,” Dean says, bursting from his stasis and striding to the sparce kitchenette with manic energy.  There’s no burner or kettle in the room, but there is a microwave and a couple mugs.  As he fills one of them with tap water in the bathroom, Castiel takes a moment to take a deep breath and collect himself. 

He feels displaced and hazy, lost in a reality he never thought he’d have.  Perhaps he’s still passed out and this is all a dream.  Dean is still a demon, and Cas is dying, alone.  But the mattress feels scratchy and real between his fingers, and the stale smell of the room is too precise to be faked.  Dean is here, and human, and staying with him despite what Castiel says in protest for reasons he doesn’t understand.

It’s only then that Castiel realizes there is only one bed in their motel room. 

He doesn’t have time to contemplate the implications, however, before Dean strides back into the room and pops the mug in the microwave.  He crosses his arms and taps his foot as it heats, eyes flickering to Castiel periodically. 

“I’ll get you dosed up once this all set, alright?” he says.  “Doc says you gotta’ drink plenty of water with your meds, so I’d better see you chugging those water bottles like it’s spring break and you’re one beer away from winning a free Natty Light t-shirt.”

“…what?”

Dean glances at him over his shoulder, a fragile smirk crinkling his eyes.

“I’ll explain it to you when you grow up.”

“I’m over a million years older than you, Dean.”

“Well you don’t look a day over 3000.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, feeling like Dean is making a joke that goes beyond him.  It’s a familiar game to him, Dean making a reference he knows Castiel won’t get, and then getting playfully frustrated at his expense.  Castiel aches seeing him do it again, seeing his best friend treating him like he always used to.  He almost forgets what they’ve done to each other for a moment. 

But not quite.

He casts his eyes aside, knowing that Dean is only teasing him out of habit and not because he feels anything for him beyond disdain.  He’d heard it from Dean’s own mind, and even if he hadn’t, Dean said things would never be the same again.  Not with the Impala, not with their friendship.

“Cas, I—“Dean begins but is interrupted by the ding of the microwave.  He sighs, snatches the box off the bed, and starts making the tea.  Castiel doesn’t look at him, worried that his eyes are burning with something more than just exhaustion.

“I know you’re probably dying to sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not fine,” Dean bites, voice rising, as he fiddles with the tea bag while it sifts.  He takes a deep breath before he speaks again, calmer.  “You can sleep as soon as you’re done with the tea and have taken your meds.  I thought you had to keep someone with a concussion awake but apparently that’s not a thing anymore.  The best thing for you is rest, or so they tell me.”  Dean rips open a packet of sugar from the meager coffee bar and dumps it in the tea.  He puts the mug on the bedside table beside Cas. 

“You need to let me take care of you,” Dean states, straightening his posture and looming over Castiel, his words brimming with command.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas replies, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at him.

“Of course it matters!”

“What’s the point, Dean?  You’re doing this because you feel guilty for something that wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t get to tell me what is or isn’t my fault.”

Cas groans, peeling open his eyes to see Dean’s face so he can ensure he hears him.  He’s sick of talking about this.

“Dean, I forgive you.  For whatever it is you think you did that compels you to stay with me, I forgive you.  Wholly.  There.  You are free to go.”

Some distant part of Castiel is begging him to hold the words back, but he’s too drained to listen.  He knows that his compulsion to keep Dean with him is selfish, knows that the best thing for Dean is to be free of him.  He can’t imagine what it must be like for him to dote on someone he hates so passionately. 

Dean’s face is a mess of emotions that Castiel has no hope of deciphering.  His green eyes are sweltering and his mouth is curled into something between a sneer and pout.  Castiel finds him to be rather adorable, but he abandons that line of thought as fast as he can.  He doesn’t deserve to have it.

“It doesn’t matter if you forgive me,” Dean finally says.

“I see.”  Castiel should have known his regard would mean nothing to Dean.  He feels foolish for thinking otherwise.

“Because I can never forgive myself.”

Castiel’s headache surges when his gaze snaps up to Dean.   Dean’s eyes, etched with sadness so deep it seems like nothing could ever carve it out, make his mouth go dry.

“Dean,” he whispers.  “Please don’t say that.”

“So you might as well let me do this.  I know you want me to leave you alone, but I—“

“I don’t want that,” Cas says, the words slipping free.  “I don’t want you to leave me alone.”

Dean’s head jerks back, his mouth falling open.

“How?” he asks. 

“H-how?”  Cas blinks, befuddled.

“Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t need to ask me that, Dean.”

The stare at each other.

Cas knows he’s already revealed too much, has rendered himself utterly vulnerable to the person who can hurt him the most.  He’s already told Dean all of his darkest secrets, exposed how deeply he feels for the righteous man while he was naked and dying.  He can’t possibly flay himself open any more than he already has.  Dean must not remember what he said if can’t see why Castiel wants to stay with him.  He’d made it pretty clear that there’s nowhere in the universe he’d rather be than by Dean’s side.

“Where are you going to sleep tonight?”  The words tumble from Cas’s lips before he has time to check them.  He feels heat rise in his face, and curses himself for being too tired to keep his mouth shut.

“I…hadn’t thought about it,” Dean replies slowly.

“There’s only one bed.”

“I noticed.”  Dean wipes his palms off on his jeans, then scratches the back of his head, then props his hands on his hips.  “Drink your damn tea before it goes cold.”

It takes a great deal of effort, but Castiel manages to prop himself up on his pillows and pick up the mug with tremoring hands.  The steam rising from the tea fills his nose, taking the edge off the headache pounding behind his eyes.  He sips, just barely biting back a moan when the sweet, herby tea slides down his worn throat.  When he looks up he finds Dean watching him with a strange expression.

“It’s very nice, Dean, thank you.” 

“It’s alright,” Dean replies, scrunching his face as thought that wasn’t what he intended to say.

As Castiel sips his tea, Dean busies himself with putting away their groceries and arranging pill bottles on the nightstand.  He flicks on the TV to some channel advertising dynamic electric screwdrivers and tosses the remote near Castiel’s hip.  He moves like an animal trapped in a small space, pacing and twitching.  Watching him through the corner of his vision is anxiety-inducing, and Castiel sighs in relief when Dean finally locks himself in the bathroom with sleep clothes, burn ointment, and bandages in his arms.

Mug propped on his chest, Castiel’s heavy eyelids start to slide closed as he’s lulled by the sounds of meaningless television and the scent of chamomile. 

He’s almost asleep when a noise startles him violently back into waking and he almost spills the remainder of his tea.  It takes him a moment to blink through the fog clogging his head to realize he’d heard a sound of pain, and that it had come from the bathroom.

“Dean?” he calls, voice cracking.  When he gets no reply, he puts the cup on the nightstand and swings his legs over the side of the bed.  He knows it’s stupid to walk without assistance given how close he was to fainting earlier, but fear gives him a shot of energy.  Castiel knows next to nothing about the spell that’s been cast upon them, but he’s had enough experience to be worried about what it’s doing to Dean.  “Are you alright?”

He staggers to his feet, nearly toppling into the TV stand when the room sways around him.  He moves like a toddler, just learning how to walk and unable to curb his momentum.  He means to knock on the bathroom door like a normal person, but instead crashes directly into it, making it fly open and slam into the wall. 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean yelps, falling off the lidded toilet and onto the floor.  “What the fuck, Cas?”

Cas rakes his eyes over Dean, desperately confirming that he’s alright.  Half of Dean’s arm is wrapped in a fresh bandage, but Castiel can see enough of the burn to discern how serious it is.  Blackened skin gnarls and twists around Dean’s arm like a worm, a parasite.  Dean had clearly been tending to it, which explains his cry of pain.  Other than that, he seems unscathed.

Once Castiel has satisfied himself that Dean isn’t in any mortal peril, he realizes what a ridiculous position he’s gotten himself in, looming over Dean and panting, while he lies sprawled on the tiles in nothing but his boxers.  His face burns with embarrassment.

“I…I’m sorry.  I heard you cry out, and I thought—“

“What are you doing out of bed?” Dean barks, his tone similar to a mother chastising a disobedient child. 

“…saving you?”  Cas scrunches his face, cringing at how pathetic his reasoning sounds.

Dean scrambles to his feet before advancing on Castiel, a sharpness in his eyes.

“Haven’t you done enough of that already?”

Cas flinches away from him like he’s been stung, eyes casting downward away from Dean’s glare.  Unfortunately that gives him a perfect view of Dean’s bare torso, just as striking as he remembers it, and visions of hot skin and blood flash in his mind before he can suppress them.  He reels away from Dean’s perfect body, stumbling back into the room and collapsing on the bed.  Bile rises to his throat.  He’s repulsed by himself and his inability to quell his attraction to his best friend, even when he knows how unwanted his regard is.

He listens to Dean clanking around in the bathroom from where he lies on his side, his back to his friend.  He swallows down the acid in his chest, and counts each pound of pain in his skull.

When Dean emerges he rounds the bed, inserting himself into Castiel’s line of sight.  Looking at him reluctantly, Castiel notices that his arm is fully bandaged, and he’s changed into an Indiana Jones t-shirt and flannel pajama pants.  He looks softer than Castiel has seen him in far too long.

“You broke the lock on the bathroom door,” Dean states. 

“Oh.”

Silence.

“Why don’t you just knock next time.”

“Next time?”  Castiel frowns up at him, unable to read his expression.

“Actually, scratch that.  Just yell until I hear you.  The less you get up the better.”

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” Cas asks, apropos of nothing.  He winces.  Dean’s eyes narrow.

“On the floor.”  There’s a hint of a test in his tone.

“I don’t think that’s wise given the condition of your arm.”

“And I don’t think it’s wise to share a bed considering what happened the last time.”

Castiel sucks in a deep breath, deciding he might as well carry this horrible conversation to completion now that he’s in the thick of it.  He beats back thoughts of “the last time,” of Dean staring down at him, teeth red with blood, their bodies slick. 

“I understand the prospect of sharing a bed with me is abhorrent to you, but I cannot allow you to sleep on a hard, dirty carpet.  Therefore, I will take the floor instead.”

Dean crosses his arms and stares down at Castiel like if he looks hard enough he can trigger their telepathic connection without touching.

“’Abhorrent.’”

“…yes.  It means--”

“I know what it means, you butt.  Aside from the fact that you need to stop talking like some Victorian maiden, you also need to quit thinking you know what’s going on inside my head.”

“But I’ve heard what’s going on inside your head.”

“Clearly, you haven’t.”

Castiel squints, unsure of how to read Dean’s intention.  Then something occurs to him.

“Did…did you just call me a butt?”

“Nope.”

“You did.”

"Must've been someone else."

"It was definitely you."

“Prove it.”

A short giggle escapes Castiel’s throat, surprising both of them, strange and loud in the motel room.  He wonders if the concussion is making him mad. 

It’s small, but the corner of Dean’s lips curls up in response, as though he can’t help but be proud of making Castiel laugh.

“And by the way, a charred-up arm is hardly as bad as a damn concussion and a blood transfusion, so if you think I’m letting you sleep on the floor you’re out of your friggin’ mind.”

“Then I refuse to sleep,” Cas replies, all trace of humor gone.  "You won't get the rest you need if you're on the floor, so I won't either." 

“ _What?_ ”

“You heard me.”

“You can barely even keep your eyes open.”

Cas sits up, wincing when his head surges with pain at the movement.  Dean reaches out to touch him but retracts his hand at the last second.

“I’ll just sit here until you give up.”  Cas crosses his arms over his chest, staring stubbornly up at at Dean.  Dean sputters, his face flushing.

“You’re being a child!”

“Insulting me won’t change my mind.”

“I could just knock you out,” Dean threatens weakly, no gravity behind the words.

“It wouldn’t be difficult to do given my concussion, but it would be easier to just give me what I want.”

Cas knows he’s being obstinate, but this isn’t something he’s willing to let slide.  If Dean insists on taking care of him then he’s going to have to let Cas return the favor.

“I always give you what you friggin’ want.”

“We can debate that another time.”

In a blink, Dean’s expression morphs from playfully irritated, to unsure.  He breaks eye contact with Cas, gaze casting down to the comforter. 

“You’re…okay with this?  Really?  Sleeping next to the person who made you like this, who…did those things to you?”

“Dean,” Cas’s voice cracks.  He hates hearing Dean talk about himself this way, wants nothing more than to make it right.  “The person who did that is gone.  So if you’re asking me if I’m ‘okay’ with sharing a bed with my best friend, the answer is yes.”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes several times before he seems to settle on a reply.

“Right.  I...okay."

“It's settled then.  Now, would you mind retrieving some sleep clothes from my bag for me?  I doubt I can physically remain conscious for more than several minutes.”

Dean huffs, shaking his head.

“Don’t get whatever you want, my ass…”

By the time Cas has shucked off his, or rather _Dean’s_ , pants and pulled on pajama bottoms, he’s barely able to keep his eyes open.  It hurts to lift up the covers and slide between them, but the feeling of cool sheets makes him moan in relief.  Dean drops one of his pill bottles when he does, and grumbles profanities to himself as he picks it back up.

After swallowing down the seemingly endless medications Dean hands him, Cas turns on his side and pulls the covers up over his shoulder.  He’s about to doze off, but drags himself back to waking when he realizes Dean hadn’t moved or made a sound once he'd turned off the TV.

Without opening his eyes, Cas reaches back and flips over the covers. 

“I told you: I won’t sleep until you get into the bed,” he mumbles, hoping Dean believes the lie.  He’ll be asleep soon no matter what he vowed.

There’s a long, drawn-out sigh before the bed dips and he feels Dean slip between the sheets behind him. 

With a small, satisfied smirk, Cas gives himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions/thoughts/dreams/fantasies/personalized raps/folk tales/soliloquies/epic poems/onomatopoeia-tized inappropriate noises you'd like to share with me, feel free to check out [my personal tumblr](http://rageofthenerd.tumblr.com/) . I also have a [tumblr](http://phyona.tumblr.com) that's strictly dedicated to my fanfic, if you wanna know my writing progress and update status as this fic continues.
> 
> I love your comments like Dean loves repressing his feelings :)


	6. Chapter 6

Gray.  Everything is gray, and it is both familiar and foreign.

Castiel is surrounded by trees and a cloying, cold atmosphere that he knows can only be Purgatory, and yet there’s something off, as though he’s viewing it through a piece of glass.  Squatting on the rocky shore of a river, Castiel rinses dirt from his face with icy water and distantly recalls that someone should be coming for him soon.  But who is it?  Perhaps a monster.  No, not a monster yet.  That comes later, when a jawbone scar is burned into skin.  For now, it’s only a human, who will hug him and touch his face and mutter something about “peach fuzz” and praying every night.

Dean.

At the thought of him the river suddenly morphs, and he’s no longer standing on stones but on the wood of a dock, a lake sprawling before him.  He remembers this place.  It’s a dreamscape that belongs to Dean, and one Cas entered when he was still an angel and had yet to truly fall.   He’d had a message for Dean then.  Disturbing the serenity Dean found in the simple act of fishing that day was always something he’d regretted.  Though it would hardly be the last time Castiel stole peace from the hunter.

A prickling sensation slithers up the back of his neck, and Castiel knows without seeing that something bad is coming.  The lake before him stains black, like ink billowing in water, and the trees on the horizon contort into long, ashy fingers.  He turns to run, but his feet won’t move.  He looks down to find them swallowed by what appears to be leviathan blood. 

“Dean!” he calls out on instinct as he frantically attempts to free himself.  The fluid clings to his fingers like sap when he tries to swipe it away.  “Dean, help me!”

The blood claws up his legs, icy and consuming, a cocoon weaving around him. 

“Cas!” he hears from the gray woods.  His head jerks up, eyes searching for the source of the sound.  “Cas, where are you?”

“Here!  Dean, I’m—“ he’s cut off as the blood jerks him back towards the water, slamming his body into the dock and pulling him down with a silent splash.  “Dean!” he gargles as his head is drawn beneath the surface.  He reaches up towards the sky.

A warm hand closes around his just before it’s submerged. 

He’s ruthlessly dragged from the water and dumped onto the dock, which is no longer a dock, but rather the library table back at the Bunker.

“Cas!  Are you alright?  Are you okay?” Dean pants as he paws at Castiel’s face, neck, chest.

“No,” Cas grits, because he’s really not.  Nothing is okay.  Not in the waking world, not even in this dream.  He hadn’t exactly realized he was in a dream before now, but he supposed he sensed it in some distant way.  He’d experienced dreams the last time he was briefly human, and while he still finds them befuddling and uncomfortable, he can recognize them for what they are.

“At least you’re honest,” dream-Dean snorts, falling back onto his rear on the table.  He rubs his hands over his face and into his hair. “You scared the shit out of me, man.  I heard you yell for me.  Had to come find you.”

“You always have to come find me,” Cas mumbles, coughing and sitting up on the table so he’s facing Dean.  “Even when it hurts you.”

“You’re one to talk after the shit you just pulled.”  Dean glares at him with eyes turned grass-green by the yellow light of the library.  Castiel realizes that his clothes are dry despite his dip in the lake, but he doesn’t give it much thought.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m hurt.  I’m supposed to keep you safe.”

“That’s stupid as hell.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“Not like you ever listen.”

“I always listen to you, Dean.  I just don’t always do what you want.”

“If by ‘not always’ you mean ‘never.’”

Dean slides off the table top and gets to his feet before holding out a hand.  Cas­ stares at it for a moment.  He finally takes it when Dean’s fingers start to curl. 

Standing puts him right into Dean’s space, so close that he can see the flecks of gold in Dean’s irises.  Even as a dream they’re striking, and he stares, unabashed.

He sighs against Dean’s mouth, sad that he cannot have this when he’s awake, despite how grateful he is to be close to him in any way he can.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asks.  He swallows and casts a brief glance to Cas’s lips.

"I wish I could kiss you.”

 Dean blinks, his head jerking back slightly.  He doesn’t pull away.

“Why can’t you?” he whispers like someone might hear them.

“You don’t want me to.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I don’t need to.  I heard it, and I see the way you look at me now.”  Cas starts to pull away, but firm hands on his biceps hold him in place.

“I…that’s not…shit, why can’t we ever just talk to each other?” Dean huffs.

“We talk all the time.”

“Yeah, but we never…say things.”

“I believe I’ve said all I could possibly say to you,” Cas states to the dream version of Dean.  It seems that even in his head he can’t understand his friend.  He slips out of Dean’s grip, gone slack as Dean stares blankly ahead.

He’s almost made it to the door before Dean grabs his hand and jerks him back around, spinning him right into Dean’s chest.  With a firm grip on the lapel of Castiel’s trench, Dean forces him to stare into his eyes.

“I’m sick of you doing that,” Dean growls.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Walking away.  You’re always fucking walking away and leaving me standing there like some kind of—“

“Just a moment ago you were antagonizing me for following you, and now you’re mad at me for leaving?”

“That’s different.  I don’t want you to follow me if it means you getting hurt, you idiot.”

“I am not an idiot.”  Castiel is sick of Dean treating him like some stupid child.  He’s been fully cognizant of all the choices he’s made, and he wants to own them.

Dean’s anger flickers, his eyes going soft.

“I know that, I just meant—“

“I’ve told you how I feel about you, Dean.  And I know perfectly well what you feel for me, so this conversation is pointless.  You aren’t even real.”

 “I don’t…what?  What do you mean not real?”

"You’re just, what do they call it?  A figment of my imagination.”  As he speaks, realization dawns on Castiel; he has the perfect opportunity to exert some of his desire for Dean without consequences.  He’d be the idiot Dean thinks he is not to take it.  “Oh.”

In one swift motion Castiel reaches up and cups the back of Dean’s head, fingers tangling in soft hair, and leans in.  He seals his mouth firmly over Dean’s, ignoring the startled noise the hunter makes in the back of his throat.  The lights flicker around them, a pulse of the darkness by the lake shaking the walls of the bunker.

Castiel ends it quickly, not waiting to give Dean the chance to shove him away.  The Dean in his head probably doesn’t want him anymore than the real one.  At least now it might be easier to quell his disgusting cravings for the man in the waking world.

Dean stares at him with wide, bewildered eyes, his fist still clenched in Cas’s trench, keeping him rooted to the spot. 

“You kissed me,” he says at last.

“It’s hardly the first time.”

“Yes it is.”

“We kissed plenty of times when—“

Castiel goes cold, his teeth clicking shut, and swears he feels black blood lapping at his ankles again.  It seems that no matter how many times he affirmed to Dean that he wasn’t himself when he was a demon, Cas still managed to forget.  Dean and him never kissed, never touched each other in the ways he craves when he was human.  The only man Castiel kissed was a monster.

"Yes.  You’re right.  But, you’re not yourself now either,” he says.

“What are you talking about?  Why do you keep saying that?”

“I’m dreaming, Dean.  You aren’t real.”

Dean stares at him, frozen, for a long, confusing moment.  It’s almost as though Castiel’s brain has misfired and forgotten to give the specter something to do.  But then Dean wrenches away from him, stumbling back and putting a few strides between them.

“Oh shit,” he gasps, gripping his hair in his fingers.

"What?” Cas starts to approach him, but halts when Dean flinches away.  He holds up his palms, placating.   “What’s wrong?”

“I’m dreaming too, Cas.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This isn’t just your dream, don’t you get it?  We’re sharing it like friggin’ _Inception_ or some shit.”

“So…you’re really—“

"Yeah, Cas, I’m really real.  Our skin must be touching in our sleep.  It’s the telepathy thing.”

"No…”

Cas stumbles to a nearby chair and collapses into it just before his knees give out.  The walls around them fall away with a crash to reveal the insipid trees of Purgatory once again.  The same dark entity from the lake creeps closer, watching them between tree branches.  Cas can feel it closing in on them.

“Dean, I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I never would have kissed you if I’d known it was really you.”  A rushing sound fills Castiel’s ears, and he feels the fingers of black blood crawling up his legs.  “Not again.  I swore I never would again.”

“Cas, calm down, damnit.  You’re making it go all nightmare-y in here.”

Castiel can barely hear him, guilt and revulsion at himself clogging his thoughts.  He starts to sink into the floor, chair and all, as the leviathan blood rises up to consume him.

“Hey!” Dean shouts, striding to him.  He lifts him bodily out of the chair and takes Castiel’s face in his hands.  “Look at me,” he commands, and Castiel does.  “It’s fine, alright?  Just a kiss.  No big deal.”

“No big deal,” Cas repeats dumbly.

“Yeah. Hell, you should see some of the kinky shit I got going on in _my_ dreams.  We got off easy.”  He gives Castiel a wink, and in an instant, the darkness recedes.  The walls of the bunker rise back up around them, sealing them in comfort and familiarity.

Breaking eye contact, Dean lets him go and takes a step back. 

“So Purgatory, huh?” he says, hands on his hips as he observes the room around them.  He’s blatantly changing the subject, but Castiel is grateful for it.  “Not sure if that came from my head or yours.”

“When I’m human I dream of it often,” Cas replies, sitting back in the chair.

“I’m guessing from your phrasing that angels don’t dream then.”

“Angels do not sleep, so no.”

“Must be pretty weird for you, huh,” Dean says, gesturing at the world around them.  “Even without me crashing the party.”

“Yes.  I don’t yet know how to cope with the nightmares.”

“Ha, I’ve dreaming my whole life and I still don’t.”  Dean leans back against the table, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I must say, though, now that I know it’s you, it is soothing, to have your presence.”  When Dean’s brow puckers at his words, Castiel fears he’s made him uncomfortable, but then the skin smooths out and a smile tugs at Dean’s lips. 

“I don’t really mind it either, Cas.  You know I always say it’s better to have a partner than go it alone.  And I can’t even imagine what sort of horror stories my head is going to come up with after the whole demon thing.”

Castiel might be imagining it, but Dean seems much more open and calm in his head than he does when his mouth has time to filter his thoughts.  It’s refreshing, and Castiel feel like he’s talking to a younger version of Dean, less guarded and tarnished by life. 

“Perhaps we should utilize this curse when we sleep to make it more bearable.  The connection seems easier to control like this,” Cas remarks.

“Yeah, and I don’t feel like I’m getting sucker punched with your thoughts right now, so that’s nice.”

“Likewise.”

“Though I gotta’ say, this whole blood and darkness thing you got going on in your head is no picnic.”

Cas crosses his arms over his chest, embarrassed Dean has to see how deranged his psyche is.

“How do you know that was manifested by me?” he grumbles.  He might be pouting.

“Because it keeps going after you and not me.  I know what my own demons look like, trust me.  Besides, of the two of us, you’re the one who’s had Leviathan blood all up in your business.  At least I’m guessing that’s what that black crap that keeps attacking you is.”

Dean is right, but Castiel doesn’t give him much more than a shrug in response.

“Aw, don’t be like that, ya’ baby.”  Dean saunters over to him, reaches out, and ruffles his hair.

“I’m not being like anything,” Cas grunts, slapping Dean’s hand away.

“You’re practically blushing.  I told you, wait ‘til you see the shit rattling around in my dreams.  It’ll make yours look like Candyland.”

Castiel has never heard the term “Candyland” before, but the word conjures vivid imagery in his head, which means their surroundings suddenly get very strange.

Dean jumps when a giant lollipop sprouts out of the ground behind him.

“The fuck!” he yelps, stumbling onto Cas where he still sits in the chair. 

“Oomph,” Cas huffs when Dean’s entire weight falls in his lap. 

All around them different giant candies fall from the ceiling and morph out of various objects around the room.  A bookcase becomes a chocolate bar, a lamp becomes candy cane, and the walls turn to gingerbread.

“The hell is this?” Dean snaps, glaring over his shoulder at Castiel.  He hasn’t seemed to notice that he’s seated with his ass pressed to Castiel’s groin.  Cas blinks, trying to gather himself.  He jerks his hands away from Dean’s waist, which he’d apparently been holding.

“You said Candyland.”

“Candyland is a board game, you fruitcake.  I didn’t think saying it would make you turn the bunker into this Hansel and Gretel witch house acid trip shit.”

“The fable where an elderly spinster cannibalizes children?”

“Oh, _now_ he gets the reference.”

“I was alive for that story’s publication, Dean.  If anything, it’s a reference _you’re_ getting.”

“Well, excuse me, Father Time.  Wouldn’t want to insult your 200 year old pop culture game.”

“Are you aware that you’re sitting on my lap, Dean?” Cas says, because it’s about time someone catches Dean off guard.

Cas watches in satisfaction as Dean’s entire face flushes scarlet.  He flails, throwing himself to his feet and putting some distance between them.  When he catches sight of Castiel’s smirk, however, he quickly tries to regain his dignity.  He crosses his arms and attempts to casually lean against the enormous lollipop, but it immediately keels over under his weight, bringing Dean down with it in a cascade of limbs and flannel. 

Castiel quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t look so damn impressed with yourself,” Dean grumbles as he struggles to stand up.  “Not my fault your friggin’ Candyland has like, zero structural integrity.”

“Of course not.”

Dean narrows his eyes.

"Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“The sass thing.  You’re doing it again.”

Before he can suppress it, the memory of a motel bed and blood and black eyes floods back into Castiel’s head. 

“ _Didn’t I literally just tell you not to piss me off?  Fuck, who taught you to sass, huh?_ ” he hears Dean’s voice echo around him.  He can tell from Dean’s face that he hears it too, and suddenly Castiel wants this dream to end.

“ _Probably you_ ,” he hears himself say, just as Dean’s disembodied voice says “ _probably me_.”

In an instant the candy vanishes, and black blood stains the walls.  Through the vents, smoke creeps in, and Castiel knows it was not conjured by his mind.  Dean stares at it with wide eyes, his breath hitching.

“Dean,” Cas says, distracted from his own turmoil by the look on Dean’s face.  “It’s okay.”

Dean’s eyes jerk to him, and the self-revulsion and fear Castiel reads in them steals his breath away.  Another memory reverberates around them like it’s spoken into an intercom.

“ _What is it, huh? You need me to show you how far gone I am before you believe it? Wanna see how much I_ _love_ _going dark side?_ ”

“It wasn’t you,” Castiel tries to tell him, rising from his chair and reaching out for Dean’s shoulder.  “You didn’t’ have control over what you were saying.  It was the Mark.” 

Dean jerks away from Castiel’s touch when another memory sounds, as if trying to prove Castiel wrong.

“ _The Dean you know has been gone for a long, long time.  Snatched away right from under your pretty nose and you didn’t see it.  Besides, after everything you’ve done, don’t you think he hates you already?_ ” It’s more obvious than ever how different Dean sounded when he was a demon compared to now.  Castiel watches a flinch rock through Dean’s body like a tremor. 

The memories keep coming, one after another from different parts of the room.  Dean jerks towards the sounds every time, moving like an animal caught in a trap.  The smoke from the vent seems to grow stronger with every word.

“ _Stop_ ,” Castiel hears himself groan.

“ _I would if I thought you wanted me to._ ”

“It's okay," Castiel repeats, at a loss.

"It’s not okay,” Dean grits, eyes finding Castiel’s.

“Dean—“

“ _I am not some toy of yours_.”

“ _That’s exactly what you are, buddy.  My toy.  I can do anything I want to you_.”

In a startling explosion of movement, Dean charges for the nearest object, a chair, and throws it as hard as he can at the vent.  It hits the mark, but only serves to spread the demon smoke, making it billow out and draw closer.  Dean continues to snatch up everything in reach and chuck it, but the cloud only grows, and grows, until Dean is shouting.

A litany of the things they said to each other when Dean was a demon continue to play in air around them, until they devolve into the noises of pain Castiel made as Dean hurt him.  It’s a horrible soundtrack, and Castiel feels helpless to stop it as each word breaks Dean a little more.

“Dean!” Cas finally yells, striding towards him and wrapping his arms around the hunter from behind.  He presses tight against Dean’s back and holds his wrists.  Dean fights him for a few moments, trying to buck him off, but eventually sags against him and drops the book he was about to throw. 

The smoke stops advancing.

“Dean, it’s okay.  The Mark is gone, and I’m still here,” Cas whispers directly into Dean’s ear.

“I'm sorry,” Dean says, voice cracking.

“I know.”

Dean shakes his head.

“I hate myself.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“It’s true, though.  I hate myself so fucking much for what I did to you.  For what I did to everyone.  To S-Sammy.”

“It wasn’t you.  I know it wasn’t you.  And what happened doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

“But I hurt you,” Dean says.

“And you stopped.  You came back.”

Silence stretches between them and their world, and Castiel doesn’t stop holding Dean.

“Why don’t you hate me?” Dean asks eventually, tipping his head to the side to press their temples together.  In answer, Castiel’s disembodied voice fills the space around them like a warm breeze.

“ _From the moment I touched you, you burned so bright.  Your soul, I’d never seen anything so beautiful, beyond stars and seas and all the treasures of the universe.  It was…devastating.  Seeing that, I was too weak.  It shouldn’t have been me, Dean.  It shouldn’t have been me who found you…because it broke me.  I severed from myself, from heaven and God.  I’ve been wandering ever since, caught in your orbit, and never worthy of the gift of knowing you.  I am so sorry Dean.  You deserved so much more than me._ ”

In the wake of Castiel’s confession they're frozen.  For a long moment, Castiel is embarrassed to hear the feelings he’d revealed when he thought he was dying.  It’s undoubtedly the most deeply personal, secret thing he’s ever said in his long existence.  He can’t see Dean’s face, and he’s glad for it, but he can feel the way Dean’s breath is catching in his chest.

Eventually, Castiel relinquishes his hold and steps back.  Dean doesn’t turn to face him.

“My soul,” Dean says at last, so quietly that Castiel almost misses it.

“Your soul?”

“You can’t see it anymore, can you.”

A pause.

"No.  Not in this form.”

“And you couldn’t see it when we were in bed, I mean…when your blood was bringing me back, either.  Your grace was too weak.”

“Correct.  I could sense it sometimes, though.”

“And what did it feel like?”

Castiel sighs.  He doesn’t want to answer but he doesn’t have a choice.

“It was tainted.  Menacing, powerful.  But as my blood purified you that faded.”

Castiel stares at the back of Dean’s head as he nods.

“Even after that, after you brought me back, it wouldn’t be the same, would it.  My soul wouldn’t be the way it was when you first found me.”  There’s such certainty behind the words that Castiel is spurred into action, unable to bear Dean believing the way Castiel felt about him when they met has been sullied.  He grabs Dean’s shoulder and spins him around, the same exact way Dean once did in a bright, ornate room, right before he convinced Cas to fall for him for the first time.

He grips the sides of Dean’s face, forcing green eyes to lock with blue.

“It would be better now,” Castiel says, with as much conviction as he can muster.

Dean’s head shakes between his palms.

“No, Cas.  You said it yourself.  It’s tainted.  It’s fucking ugly.  There’s no way I went dark side and didn’t ruin it.  Fucking 'righteous man'...God, it's such bullshit, I'm so far from righteous it's--”

“You don’t understand,” Cas says, sliding his thumbs along the arches of Dean’s cheeks.  “There’s nothing you could do to ruin it.  Not when you’re yourself.  Not to me.”

"Stop it,” Dean snaps, shoving Castiel back.  Castiel is startled by the sudden movement and he stumbles, falling back into the chair.  He stares up at Dean, hurt and confused.

“Dean, wh—“

“Why do you have to fucking do that, huh?” Dean shouts, starting to pace back and forth.  He grips his hair in tight fists.

“What do you—“

“I don’t deserve that!  Not from you.  Not after--It’s not fair!"

With every pace Dean seems to grow more manic, and the walls of the bunker start to shake.  A distant rumbling draws closer, as books and artifacts fall from their shelves.

“Dean, calm down—“

“I will not fucking calm down!"  He kicks a chair, and the noise is louder than it should be.  "What the hell is wrong with you, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says, Dean’s words cutting a little too deep.  His gaze falls to the floor.

Dean strides to him and grips his lapels, pulling him to his feet.  His face is so close, but Castiel still can’t bear to look at him, so he turns his head away.

“Look at me, damnit.”

“No,” he mutters.

Dean raises his hand to tilt Castiel’s face towards his, but memories of an alleyway are too fresh in Castiel’s mind, and he flinches violently.  Dean doesn’t hit him, but the sound of a slap fills the room anyway.  Castiel hates his mind for conjuring it.

Dean freezes with a gasp, and the rushing around them stops, the walls stilling. 

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, his voice broken. 

"I'm sorry, I knew you weren't going to hit me again, I just--"

“Look what I did to you.”

Castiel realizes distantly that he’s trembling, and he’s overwhelmed by a sudden, desperate need to ground himself.  He curls his fists into Dean’s chest, gripping his flannel, and presses his forehead into the bend of Dean’s neck.

“Please,” he hears himself say. 

More words are waiting on the back of his tongue, but the world dips around them before he can free them.  The lights switch out with sudden, brutal totality, and when Castiel blinks sight back into his eyes, he knows he’s not dreaming anymore.

Awareness of his surroundings comes detail by detail, and then all at once.  He’s back in the motel bed, with his whole body pulsing with pain on each beat of his heart.  He’s lying on his side facing Dean, whose eyes are fluttering open, and their hands are linked on the mattress between them.  He grips Dean’s fingers the same way he’d been gripping his shirt not a moment before.

When his eyes lock with Dean’s they don’t part for what feels like years.  Currents of emotion and broken thoughts course through the link where their skin touches, a feedback loop that Castiel can’t bear to sever. 

He feels Dean’s self-loathing, his turmoil and his fear.  It mirrors his own so perfectly that soon Castiel can’t sift Dean’s thoughts from his own.  With every passing moment the connection between them grows, knotting them together.

 _"I wish you’d forgive yourself,"_ he sends through the link.  He’s unable to say the words out loud.

 _"I don’t think I can."_ Castiel feels Dean’s words like a whisper inside his skin.

Before Castiel can reply Dean pulls away, cutting their connection so suddenly that it hurts, a white-hot pain shocking through his body like liquid metal, and a whimper escapes his throat.  By the time he comes back to himself Dean has already fled the bed and shut himself in the bathroom.

As he stares at the closed door, unable to move, Castiel strategizes.  He's filled with conflicting thoughts, and he needs time to order them and plan his next move.  He can't ignore the relief he feels at knowing that the hatred he perceived from Dean is not directed at him.  It's a fact he would be unable to accept had he not seen and felt it from Dean's own mind.  At the same time, seeing Dean level such vitriol at himself is excruciating to witness, and he knows its up to him to stop it.

A memory surfaces in his mind, an old relic.  It fills him with determination like he’s never felt before, and he knows what he must do.

 _I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition._

                           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For progress updates/questions/fanart inspired by my work: [Phyona](http://phyona.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I love you like Cas loves Netflix.


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel isn’t sure how long he’s been deep in thought when he realizes Dean hasn’t made a sound from the bathroom.

“Dean?” he calls out, his voice scratchy with disuse.  No reply.  “Are you alright?”

He listens.  When he doesn’t hear anything beyond his own breathing, his anxiety spikes.  He knows Dean told him not to get up, even if he needed him, but he swings his legs over the edge of the mattress and pushes himself to his feet anyway.  Perhaps Dean had a point when he said Castiel never listens to him.

The world teeters.  Castiel’s head floods with pain and the back of his throat prickles with nausea.  The few steps to the bathroom are exhausting, and he has to fight the intense urge to collapse.  He’s never felt so weak, or so bereft of his angel grace.

“Dean?”

Castiel pushes on the door and it creaks open, the lock broken as Dean had said.

He gasps when he catches sight of Dean, lying on his side on the tiled floor, his hands clamped over his ears and eyes squeezed tight.  His knees are pulled up to his chest, his whole body quivering.

“Dean, what happened?  What’s wrong?”  Cas falls to his knees and takes hold of his wrist. 

The moment their skin makes contact, a quick rush of agony bursts up Castiel’s arm and into his head.  It’s nothing like the physical aches of his body.  It’s deeper, all-consuming.  But then, carried on its heels, is an even more potent balm of relief and pleasure.  Castiel hasn’t orgasmed many times, but it’s the closest comparison he has for what the reconnection of their minds feels like.  It tingles and sparks, a livewire of sensation and ecstasy and _home_. 

He doesn’t savor the feeling for very long, concern that Dean was in pain from their connection, or rather the breaking of it, ruining his enjoyment of the pleasure.  He has no idea how this curse will progress, but he knows it can’t be good.  He’d experienced the downside of it on some level when Dean severed their bond on the bed, but it was nothing compared to what he now knows Dean suffered.  And, as Cas has learned from thousands of years of experience, magic like this always comes with a massive price tag.

“ _Dean?_ ” he asks, his words a gentle stroke at mind of the hunter.

Dean doesn’t respond and his eyes don’t open, but his face is no longer scrunched and his hands have let go of his ears.  His breath is coming in rapid pulls through his nose, though he calms as Castiel continues to touch him.  When Cas runs his thumb along the vein on Dean’s wrist, he shivers.

“ _Can you hear me?_ ” The words leave him as a note fluttering through fog, lost to the mist clogging Dean’s brain.

When he and Dean had talked through the link not a few moments before on the bed, the path between them was clear and strong.   The idea that Dean’s conscious is now clouded to Castiel makes his palm sweat where their skin is touching.  Is it possible that the curse has damaged him permanently? For a long, frightening moment he’s met with nothing but continued silence.

“ _Cas,_ ” he feels echo in his head, nothing more than a wisp of breath, a sigh between his ears.  He sags in relief.  

“ _Dean.  You need to wake up.”_ He makes the words loud and crisp, hoping to jar him into consciousness.  Dean flinches, but his eyes don’t open.  Still, when Castiel feels Dean’s response in his head it’s stronger than before, and some of the fog rolls away.

“ _Turn down the volume, feathers_ ” he says.  Castiel is relieved to hear the familiar grumpy voice.

“ _Sorry.  I was hoping to wake you up_.  _You’re unconscious on our bathroom floor_.”

“ _Can’t._ ”

“ _You can’t wake up?_ ”

“ _No.  Need to heal_.”  Castiel blinks down at him in confusion, startling when Dean reaches out with his burnt arm and grabs hold of his t-shirt.  He tugs at it, sluggish.

“ _What do you mean?_ ”

“ _Sleep with me_.” 

Even though he’s unversed with innuendo, Castiel can’t help the rush of heat those words inspire.  He feels a blush bloom on his cheeks.

“ _Not like that, Casanova_.”  The words have a fond, teasing glint, but Castiel is embarrassed nonetheless.  He wants to lie, despite how frivolous he knows the effort is with his mind bared open.

“ _I didn’t mean_ —“

“ _At least not yet_.”  The words carry a wink on their backs, and a current of flustered anticipation torrents from Castiel into the link.  Dean seems just as surprised by his own flirting, projecting discomfort and guilt.   At least Castiel can see his mind clearly now.

“ _I mean…I just need to sleep,_ ” Dean attempts to clarify.

“ _I don’t recommend sleeping on the bathroom floor, Dean_ ,” Cas says, trying to regain his composure and change the subject.  “ _It’s not sanitary and our wounds demand a proper bed_.  _We’ve already had this argument_.” 

“ _Hurts too much._ ”

“ _What does?_ ”

“ _Being awake.  I did something when I pulled away from you.  Like…like I ripped off part of myself and it’s still inside you.  The light hurts so fucking much.  I just need to be in the dark for a little while, let myself heal_.”

Castiel sighs, wanting to give Dean what he’s asking for but knowing it’s not what’s best for him.  The more they speak, the more Dean wakes, the clearer his mind becomes.

 “ _I want to let you heal, Dean, I do, but I need to see that you_ can _wake up.  I need to know this is temporary_.”

“ _I knew you were gonna’ say that_.”

“ _I should hope so, considering you can read my mind_.” 

Cas feels a titter of amusement from Dean, like a chuckle inside his skin.

“ _There you go again with the sass thing_.”

“ _Dean_.”

“ _Yeah, Cas?”_

“ _Please._ ”  It’s a word Castiel has said to Dean innumerable times in their relationship, but he’s never projected his longing, his desperation into it before as he does now.  He senses the exact moment the weight behind the plea hits Dean, cutting far deeper than he meant.  Without another word, Dean begins the climb back into waking. 

Castiel feels the hurt every step into consciousness gives him, and he emanates calm and care as much as he can, wishing again that he had his grace to heal them.

When Dean’s green eyes blink open, Castiel’s are there to greet them with blue.

“Thank you,” he says out loud. 

“Ow,” Dean grunts in reply, letting go of Castiel’s shirt to cover his eyes. “This is as bad as the third-worst hangover I’ve ever had.  Waking up on a bathroom floor included.”

“ _Can you stand?_ ” Cas asks, using the connection.  He hadn’t intended to, but it feels natural, easy, even if he knows he shouldn’t.

Dean lifts his hand enough to look at him through slitted eyes.

“I can if you get off me.”

Castiel blanches, realizing that he’s straddling Dean’s hips.  He tries to get to his feet, but can’t get too far unless he breaks their skin contact.  Using his grip on Dean’s wrist, he starts pulling Dean up with him, trying to ignore the way Dean grimaces. 

“ _It’s okay_ ,” he projects soothingly, trying to pull some of Dean’s pain into himself.  After a moment, it seems to work, the edge of Dean’s hurt syphoning off and compiling on the many aches riddling Castiel’s battered body.

“Stop that,” Dean grits as he stands.  He pushes against Castiel with his disapproval, reclaiming whatever pain Cas managed to ease off him.  “You worry about your own shit and let me handle mine.”

Castiel finds it to be a silly request, given his extensive history of abandoning his own needs for the sake of Dean’s.  It’s almost amusing that Dean would even bother asking.

“ _Can’t blame a guy for trying_ ,” Dean says, exuding his own brand of prickly amusement.  Castiel should feel more uneasy that Dean can read his unarticulated thoughts than he does.

As they stumble their way back to the bed, Castiel keeping his grip on Dean’s wrist firm, he contemplates how much easier communication with Dean is when they can’t hide their thoughts from each other.  Neither of them had been good at communicating before.  Castiel isn’t skilled at processing or expressing human emotion, and he often buries his struggles, keeping things to himself that might have been solved if he’d only discussed them with Dean.  He’s never liked asking for help.

Dean is no better.  Castiel always knew there were aspects of himself that Dean repressed, but he never knew how whole and complicated and deep that repression was.  Until now.

Dean’s personality is a tapestry of contradictions.  Now that Cas can see his mind, he finds two different people residing within it, one covering the other so that every edge and facet is carefully hidden.  The top layer of him is masculine and hard, unapologetically brazen and confident, violent and sexual.  It’s a mask.  Armor.  Underneath a much softer person lives.  A man who loves home-cooked meals and long showers and sleeping wrapped in someone’s arms.  A man who hates germs and people yelling and being left behind. 

Through the connection, Castiel sees Dean, and for the first time he realizes the extent of what his upbringing taught him to repress.

When a current of shame and anger twists up his arm and into his head, he knows Dean heard his thoughts.  He tries to respond with a gentle wisp of apology, but it hits a wall before it can pass through.  He watches Dean out of the corner of his eye as they start crawling onto the mattress, but Dean won’t look at him.  The tips of his ears are pink between the freckles.

Cas lies on his side, Dean on his back with his eyes trained on the ceiling.  Castiel squeezes his wrist to get his attention, and a pulse of Dean’s thoughts sneak through. 

He’s ashamed that Castiel saw how warped he is inside.  He thinks Castiel knows he’s broken.

“ _I didn’t mean it the way you’re thinking_ ,” Cas murmurs into his mind.

“I’m not _repressed_ ,” Dean spats out loud.

Castiel tries to send reassurance to him, but can’t detangle it from his honest feelings.  Dean’s face crumples.

“I’m not!” he repeats.

Dean flinches when the volume of his own voice makes the headache burst behind his eyes.  Castiel winces too, their bond so strong now that the edges of Dean’s sensations become his own.

Castiel doesn’t risk speaking, not when Dean will see right through any denial he could craft.  Dean exhales a long, slow breath beside him as Castiel stares at the handsome angles of his profile, waiting.

“ _Okay, so maybe I am a little._ ”

The admission is so delicate that it barely reaches him.  A smile tugs at Castiel’s lips. 

“I was an angel, Dean.  I’d be the last person to judge you for repressing your feelings.  Repression was sort of…patented by my species.”

Dean huffs a short laugh, and the sound of it heals a small part of Cas’s frayed edges.  Affection effloresces inside him, and for the briefest moment he tries to hide it, but he knows it’s hopeless.  And maybe he doesn’t want to anymore anyway.

Dean’s smile flickers.  He finally turns his head on the pillow, and meets Castiel’s eyes.

They stare at each other for what feels like centuries, tides of thought flowing between them.  Castiel is gentle and adoring where Dean is confused and ashamed, but their feelings blend, coalescing until they belong to both of them.  Castiel sees Dean as a reflection of himself, full of self-loathing and self-righteousness, conviction and doubt. 

For every single way they are different, they are also exactly the same.

“ _Don’t insult yourself,_ ” Dean says.

“ _You don’t think we’re alike?_ ”

“ _You never went black-eyed and almost killed your best friend_.”

“ _Not quite.  I just ingested millions of Purgatory souls and almost killed my best friend_.”

Dean hesitates.

“ _That was different_.”

“ _Was it?_ ”

It takes concentration, but Castiel manages to conjure memories from those days.

He presents them to Dean, even though they sicken him.  The first is the image of Dean’s face, painted in orange light from flaming holy oil, looking at Castiel with a horrible mix of pain and betrayal.  It's a picture that will haunt him for the rest of his life. 

He moves to the memory of breaking Sam’s wall, then to the threats he’d leveled at Dean when he was drunk on power and Leviathan blood, how he’d called Dean his “pet.”  And a memory he’d never told Dean about, of Leviathans trying to rip their way out of his stomach.  Of how they’d mocked Castiel incessantly for the way he thought of Dean.

Since he’s already in the thick of it, he sees no reason not to show more, like a vision of Dean’s face when he discovered Castiel had married a stranger and forgotten him.  Then how useless and cowardly Castiel was when Dean needed him most to take down Leviathans, though he doesn’t hide how ill he was, how he craved Dean’s friendship and understanding to soothe the ruins of his psyche.  He presents abandoning Dean in Purgatory, showing how every one of Dean’s nightly prayers, calling for him, gutted him inside.  He adds his unwilling subterfuge with Naomi, how he’d broken free from her fetters only after he’d beaten Dean to a pulp.  But he also shows how the words “I need you” from Dean’s lips struck to the core of his very being, even though he’d fled with the angel tablet after, afraid that his affection for Dean was blinding him to the needs of his own species.  He adds Metatron, and April, and Nora.

Dean just observes, silent and staring.

When Castiel is finished, he feels raw, so he closes his eyes and waits for a reaction from Dean.

For a moment, he senses nothing from the hunter, and almost wonders if Dean’s learned how to shield himself from the link.  But then, he’s touched by a flicker of emotion.

It’s betrayal, old and poorly healed, like a fracture never cosseted by a brace, but betrayal nonetheless.  Cas is miserable to feel it, but Dean thwarts his despair before it spreads, and chides him without words.

And then, Dean shows Cas another emotion, one not laced with guilt, or grief, or betrayal.

In fact, it’s not comprised of anything at all.  It’s an absence, the crater left behind by pain inflicted at an early age and left to fester.

Loneliness.  Cold, sprawling, fathomless loneliness… _gone_ , for the first time in as long as Dean can remember.

At first, they’re both stunned.  The weight of the realization is too much.  A creature as destructive as Castiel can’t possibly be responsible for something so good, and yet he is.  He can see it with his own mind.

For his part, Dean seems utterly lost, like an animal caged all its life who doesn’t know what to do when the prison door is opened. 

Their eyes lock.

“Cas,” Dean says, the word carrying so much more than just his name.

“Dean.”

Without thought, Castiel shifts towards him, sidling up to Dean’s side and tucking his head under his chin.  Dean’s chest is warm and Castiel inhales the wonderful scent of him, no longer sullied from the Mark.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“I know,” Dean replies.  “I’m sorry too.”

True, genuine forgiveness cycles through the link, for so many mistakes, so many ways they’ve hurt each other when they were fighting to do the opposite. 

Still, Cas senses that Dean’s forgiveness is wholly for Castiel, and that he has none yet for himself.  But it’s a step in the right direction, and Castiel hopes like he hasn’t in a very long time.

The hunter takes a deep breath beneath him, the tension bleeding from his bones on the exhale.

“ _How’d we get ourselves into this mess?_ ” he thinks, squeezing Castiel’s fingers where their hands are trapped between their bodies.

Castiel just nuzzles closer, and Dean adjusts to carefully wrap his arm around Castiel’s back without letting go of his hand.  Despite their injuries, they find complete comfort.

When sleep creeps over both of them, it pulls them down together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to add what will be chapter 8 onto this one, but I figured you guys have waited long enough for an update, and I didn't want this chapter to be too much of a bruiser.
> 
> Next chapter is the final one, with a happy epilogue after that.
> 
> I love you like Dean secretly loves musicals.


End file.
